


Bridging the Ravine

by SilentAuror



Series: The Ravine Valley series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness galore, Bed-sharing, First Times, Group Therapy, M/M, Massages, Romance, Therapy, fake couple trope, loss of child (past), post-series 4, sex trafficking ring, wet t-shirt contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 58,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Sherlock and John go undercover at Ravine Valley, a therapy centre for same-sex male couples in an investigation into a possible human trafficking ring. As they pose as a couple and fake their way through the therapy sessions for the sake of the case, it quickly becomes difficult to avoid discussing their very real issues. Set roughly six nine months after series 4.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Соединяя берега ущелья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12357888) by [falson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falson/pseuds/falson)



**Bridging the Ravine**

 

What they really need, Sherlock thinks, is a case. 

A good one. One that will challenge them both, give John something solid to do, something time-consuming that will take his mind off the past… Sherlock doesn’t even know how far back to go. Six months? Eleven months? Two years? Four years? Each date has its own significance: four years ago, he falsified his own death in front of John. Two years ago, he came back and John’s life has never quite recovered from it. Eleven months ago, Mary died. Of her own volition, to be sure, and by that point it was clear to John that the marriage was over, child or no child. It was equally clear that Mary would never escape her past. There was just too much back there and she hadn’t tied up as many of the loose ends as she’d thought. 

And six months ago, Rosie died. 

It was an accident. No one’s fault. She’d choked on a piece of banana at daycare. It happened so quickly that no one could get to her in time. When John saw the report, he agreed that it wasn’t the fault of the daycare workers. The snack hadn’t even been served yet; somehow Rosie had managed to climb onto the cart holding the snack and got into the banana slices. The workers had been in the process of chivvying the other children into the loo to wash their hands before snack time. Small children are like that, John had said. They slip out of one’s sight and into trouble the instant you take your eyes off them, and with eleven other small kids, the four workers just couldn’t watch all of them at once for every second. One of them resigned immediately; another fell into a deep depression and quit two weeks later. Several of the other children were pulled out and placed in different daycare centres. 

John, meanwhile, had gone numb. Sherlock had gone to the flat the instant John called and told him, going with him to the daycare, organising the small funeral, and staying with him at Mary’s flat until John said that he couldn’t take being in the same place as Rosie’s room any more. When Sherlock was convinced that John was completely sure, he brought him back to Baker Street and they haven’t left since. They’ve had a case or two, but John hasn’t gone back to the clinic and Sherlock has been watching him carefully ever since. They put Mary’s flat up for sale and had Rosie’s things boxed up and stowed in the attics at Baker Street. John had said he didn’t want any of it, but Sherlock went ahead and did it anyway. One day, he’d said. John might want to see it again. 

The worst of the grief has passed. That first month, there had been a lot of crying and swearing, and a little too much drinking. Sherlock had curbed that, too, keeping himself vigilantly sober and clean throughout. He’d drunk a little to keep John company, then gently began to steer him away from it. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to make John feel less terrible about it all. He’d done his best, fumbling for the right words as John had stared into the fire. _I was a shit father, Sherlock. That’s the truth and you know it. And I barely even knew her, in the end. I missed so much of her life, and you don’t get that back. Now I never will. I deserved to lose her. God damn it._ Then it had been Sherlock, on his knees in front of John’s chair, holding him as John wept into his neck. _No one deserves this,_ he’d said, his voice low. _And you weren’t a shit father. You were grieving. Mary had just died._ John had shaken his head. _Let’s not even touch that can of worms now,_ he’d said, so Sherlock had dropped it. 

He knows now that John’s grief over Mary was more than grief: it was confusion and guilt and anger, a lack of having forgiven her in the first place and a sense of being made to pay now that it was over. _The whole bloody thing was a mistake, if you want to know,_ John had said, a different night, both of them sipping a herbal tisane Sherlock had found at the market as they sat in front of the fire. _How so?_ he’d asked, and the answer had been long. _I tried so hard to believe it was something it never was. Maybe we both wanted it to be that, but it wasn’t. And I could never get my head around her past, Sherlock. What kind of a person must she have really been? And I married that._

“You loved her,” Sherlock said carefully. 

John had shaken his head. “Did I?” he’d asked rhetorically. “I don’t even know any more.” 

They’ve stopped talking about it. There are other things still lying between them, but Mary is not one of them, nor is John’s enduring grief over the loss of his child. There’s still more that pushes to be said, more that Sherlock would rather like to hear, but it doesn’t seem likely that he’ll ever have the opportunity to hear it. Things will never be what he’s privately yearned for over the years, but he’s learned to be grateful for whatever John will give him. He knows very well that it could be nothing whatsoever. He still winces when he remembers Molly handing him that letter, telling him that John would rather see anyone else in the world but him, her voice evenly underscoring the single word again in repetition: _anyone_. He’d got the point then, and made it his mission to save John or die trying, because without John there wasn’t much point left in living, anyway. 

Is it odd that they’ve never properly talked about it? It seems odd, Sherlock thinks, but he’s no expert. They’ve never really talked about that day in the hospital. Or how John was going to leave the cane and never return. Never say goodbye to his face. Sherlock shudders and pushes the thought as far back into the recesses of his mind as it will go. Some things just aren’t bearable and that’s one of them. 

They need a case, he thinks again. Something good. Something that will shake things up, preferably in a less traumatic way than that whole business with Eurus. Something fun. Maybe something that will take them out of the house and somewhere noticeably different. The work has always been the thing that saved them before. They need to work now, to get the fire going in John’s eyes again. They’re both too restless. It’s not that things are tense, because they aren’t. They’ve settled into a quiet sort of daily routine. Sherlock hasn’t said a word about John returning to the clinic. They’ve worked a little. Sherlock has studiously avoided any cases that would remind John too much of Mary – lying, criminal wives, for instance – and (it goes without saying) anything at all to do with children. They need something different. But what? 

*** 

The question brings its own answer two days later. John is sitting in his chair, Sherlock at the desk with his laptop when the downstairs door opens. John lifts his head like a guard dog, listening warily, putting up a finger. Sherlock looks over at him and meets his eyes. “Lestrade,” they say at once, recognising his step. 

John actually looks excited. He folds up the newspaper he was reading and puts it on the side table. Sherlock closes his laptop and goes to sit down across from him, in their traditional places. “I hope it’s something good,” John says, unconsciously voicing Sherlock’s thought. 

“So do I,” Sherlock says, not mentioning this. 

Lestrade comes into the room, hands in the pockets of his trench coat. “Hello,” he says affably. “You two busy?” 

“Not in the slightest,” Sherlock tells him. “Come and sit down.” 

“Tea?” John offers. “There’s a pot on the table that I just made a few minutes ago. Should still be hot. Help yourself, if you like.” 

“Thanks, that’s great,” Lestrade says, and goes to pour it. “You two just sitting around here today?” 

“More or less,” Sherlock says, not looking at John. “You’ve caught us in our natural habitat. Have you got something for us?” 

“Matter of fact, I might,” Lestrade says. He stirs sugar into his tea, then comes back into the sitting room, pulls out one of the desk chairs, and sits down between them. “It’s a bit odd,” he warns. “But it’s a bit of an undercover thing and I haven’t got two people I can spare, or not two of the right kind of people, at any rate…”

John frowns. “What do you mean, ‘the right kind of people’?”

Lestrade sips, then says, “They’ve got to be the same gender. Men, specifically. Fact is, there’s a place that runs couples counselling services for same-sex male couples and I think it may be a front for something else. There’s something shady going on there, at any rate. I need two people of the same gender, obviously, to pose as a couple and spend a bit of time there. Er, you two came to mind.” 

Sherlock very carefully keeps himself from looking at John. He needs to swallow but doesn’t dare do that, either. He keeps his face absolutely expressionless. 

John reacts first. “We did, did we?” He’s flaring up already, not overtly angry, but his hackles are obviously up. He squares his shoulders. “Why’s that, then? Everyone knows I was married. To a _woman_ , even if she was – yeah. Why us?” 

“Well – ” Lestrade definitely sounds both awkward and apologetic and shoots a look of the latter in Sherlock’s direction. “Even, er, with the wife and that… it seems people have always sort of thought that… well. Yeah. Not just round the office, either. It’s a question that tends to come up at press conferences and that, too. The point is that if you two show up at this place, obviously people will know who you are. But I think they’ll find it pretty believable that you’re a couple. I mean, more than Anderson and Hallsey, say. Can you see Anderson posing as half of a couple in any of the group therapy sessions?!” 

John chokes a little on his tea. “Group therapy sessions?” he repeats blankly. “We’d have to do those?” 

Lestrade grins. “Oh, yeah. You’d have to do the whole thing, and convincingly, too. But it’d all be paid for, and I hear it’s a pretty nice set-up they’ve got. It’s out in the country with a lake on the grounds, and they’ve got a five-star chef. The rooms are supposed to be quite nice, too, and the counselling staff are all highly-rated. It’d be like a little getaway, only on the condition that you solve the crime, or do your best.” He leans back and looks at Sherlock. “What do you think?” 

Sherlock clears his throat carefully. “What makes anyone think there’s a front involved?” he asks, steering the discussion away from the topic of he and John as a couple, or perceived one, and peripherally he sees John relax slightly. 

Lestrade consults his notebook. “Well, it just seems like they have a lot of money. Like a _lot_. More than even a swank place like that should have. The owner drives a Jaguar, a couple of the other top staffers have really nice cars. There’s a Porsche, a BMW, you get the drift. There have also been a few strange reports from people who’ve visited, only they always get pulled from the internet right away.” 

“They may just be sensitive about their reputation,” John points out. 

Sherlock ignores this. “What sort of strange reports?” he asks, leaning forward. 

“Some odd behaviour from the staff in terms of flirtation, which I take it could be more expected in, er, a setting like this one, but also, once, a missing person. That report disappeared literally within seconds, but here’s the funny thing: so did the account of the person who made the report.” Lestrade flips a page. “The account holder’s name was Jimmy Walders, said his boyfriend went missing during their stay. When I looked into it, I couldn’t find Jimmy Walders or any evidence that he’d ever existed. Could have been a screen handle, I know, but his entire web presence was just wiped out in seconds.” He looks up at them both. “I thought it was worth checking out, but obviously it’s got to be an inside job and very carefully done. You’d have to really sell them on being a couple with problems.” Lestrade aims a grin at John. “I mean, surely you’ve got grist, what with living with him.” 

“Right, yeah,” John says, a bit stiffly. He’s quiet for a moment, processing internally, then squints at Sherlock. “What do you think?” he asks, his directness rather disarming. 

Sherlock purses his lips a little. “It’s entirely up to you,” he says evenly. “I’m willing if you are. It – seems worth pursuing. The case,” he specifies. 

John nods. “If people are going missing… then I think we have to,” he says finally. He looks up at Lestrade. “Yes. All right. We’ll do it.” 

“Could just be a crooked office manager, mind,” Lestrade warns. “Point is, I need someone on the inside, and the two of you have a better cover, what with already living together. I’m sure they’d be discreet if you want to avoid media attention and all that.” He downs his tea. “Thanks for this,” he says, sounding satisfied. “I was hoping you’d agree to do it. I’ll get in touch with your reservation details stat.” 

“How soon?” John wants to know. 

Lestrade makes a thoughtful sound and raises an eyebrow expressively. “The sooner the better. Today’s Saturday – I’m going to try for this next week’s session, starting on Monday.” 

“Session?” Sherlock repeats. 

Lestrade nods. “Yeah, people usually book it by the week, arrive on Monday, leave on Sunday. Some stay for two or three, but that’s getting pretty pricey. It’s not a resort; you get group therapy and one-on-one sessions and there are some spa services as I understand it, and probably some other activities. I don’t know, a lot of it’s pretty hush-hush. You’ll see soon enough. Monday’s not too soon?” 

“No,” Sherlock tells him, glancing at John, who doesn’t contradict this. “Let us know when the details are set.” 

“Will do.” Lestrade gets to his feet and carries his mug into the kitchen. “Thanks, you two. Really glad you can help with this one.” 

He goes, calling a goodbye, and a small silence forms behind him. 

“Well,” John says, _sotto voce_ despite the slam of the downstairs door. “This is going to be interesting.” 

He sounds rather dubious and Sherlock looks at him. “We’ll just have to – pretend,” he says shortly. “It comes with the territory, after all.” 

John nods. “That means really behaving like a couple, you know,” he says pointedly. “It means we go along with whatever’s needed to keep up the cover.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says, wondering why John thinks that _he_ might have an issue with that, given that John is the one who always expresses his very vocal and vociferous denial of any inference that they might be a couple. “It’s for the case,” he adds, for the sake of reassuring John. 

John nods once, his chin set firmly, then reaches for the newspaper again and disappears behind it. 

*** 

On Monday morning, Mycroft sends a car for them. Lestrade called for it, said it would be more discreet than them being driven in a police cruiser, and it’s a bit out of the way from the nearest train station. They endure most of the three-hour ride in silence, or else in the smallest of exchanges. Ravine Valley, as it’s called, is in the Malvern Hills, tucked at the foot of a half ring of forbidding, steep hills of iron grey. The main building meanders back a little, attached to wings on either side by means of glassed-in breezeways. 

They check in at the front desk and are promptly given a tour by a rather handsome young employee named Kyle. The main building contains the meeting room where the daily ‘circle meeting’ occurs – group therapy, Sherlock sees John mentally register, all the while keeping his game face in place. There’s a dining room with a large, central fireplace, and adjacent to that is what appears to be a café-by-day, bar-by-night. Everything is either wood or glass, the ceilings conical, yet low enough to feel cosy. The wings contain the guest rooms. Kyle leads them down the south wing first. Each wing leads to a singular larger building at the back, enclosing a courtyard between them. The back area contains the spa facilities as well as the private counselling rooms. They’re shown the massage rooms, the two-person hot tubs, and a large steam room next to a sauna. The courtyard is a sunny garden, rampant with flowers, comfortable-looking chairs, a swing, and a fountain in the centre. Finally, Kyle leads them back down the north wing and stops in front of the door marked 19. 

“This is where I leave you,” he announces. He points to the package they received, which Sherlock has been carrying. “You’ll find everything you need in here in terms of information about the schedule and the facilities. There’s a card we ask you to fill out every night by midnight to choose your activities for the following days. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call the front desk – towels, linens, snacks – the room service menu is inside, too – or anything else that you can think of. Just say the word. As well, extra services are available à la carte. All you have to do is mark it on your daily card.” 

They thank him and he strides off. John looks after him. “Wonder if he thinks it’s pathetic, coming to a place like this at our age,” he mutters, keeping his voice down. 

Sherlock finds their card keys in the package and gives one to John. “Relax. Every relationship has issues. One would think the longer the relationship, the more complex the issues.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding his card into the slot. The door lock clicks and he opens the door. 

John follows him in. “Wow,” he says, looking around. “This is all right!”

It’s a bit of an understatement. Sherlock finds himself impressed, too. Ignoring the queen-sized bed in the centre, he takes note of the fireplace, the loveseat in front of it – evidently they’re meant to sit together – the small refrigerator and cabinet of dishes, including wine glasses. There’s a basket on the bed containing a bottle of champagne, a bakery-wrapped box of chocolate-covered strawberries, and a fancy-looking package of gourmet mixed nuts. Their room, like all the others, is on the outer wall, the large windows showing a view of the stone walls rising behind the buildings. A trail leads off between two of the hills and Sherlock recalls that Kyle said something about there being walking trails on the grounds, as well as a lake hidden by the hills. It’s lovely. There’s a jacuzzi in the bathroom as well as a shower large enough for four or five people, with every manner of jet of water imaginable. John amuses himself by turning several of them on and rather soaking the sleeve of his shirt by accident. 

Sherlock goes back into the main room. “I’ll put this in the fridge,” he says of the champagne, feeling slightly awkward about it. It feels rather as though they’re being feted as a couple on honeymoon rather than in need of relationship counselling. He wonders if John expects him to open the champagne, or whether it would be appropriate in any way to do so, considering that they aren’t here to celebrate anything other than catching a criminal of yet indeterminate nature. The atmosphere is making him feel sentimental and slightly melancholy, however; it would be nice to be here in a different manner with John. That’s just wishful thinking, though. Things will never be like that. Actively letting himself want it will only make things worse. He shuts the fridge door firmly and busies himself with the package materials. 

John has his small suitcase open on one of the luggage racks and is looking for a dry shirt. “Is there a schedule in there?” he asks, though he knows very well that Kyle said there was. “What’s on first?” 

Sherlock finds the schedule and consults it. “There’s a ‘meet-and-greet’ in the front lobby at half past eleven, then lunch at noon, followed by our first circle meeting.” Peripherally he can see that John is stripping off his shirt, so he studiously keeps his eyes on the paper in his hand. 

John snorts. “Right into the deep end, is it? What are we going to say, then?” 

Sherlock is blank. “Say?” 

John is buttoning up the new shirt, one of his plaid ones that Sherlock secretly likes the best. “Yeah,” John says, facing him, so Sherlock deems it safe to look over. “For our therapy sessions. What are we going to say is our problem?” 

“Oh.” Sherlock feels a bit lost. He shrugs. “I suppose we just tell them that we’re trying to rekindle the magic, or whatever people always say.” 

“Right. ‘Magic’,” John repeats, rolling his eyes. He crosses to the table where Sherlock is standing and eyes the fancy coffee maker with interest. He selects a disposable cup (which proudly announces itself to be biodegradable) of a Colombian dark roast and puts it in the machine to brew. 

Sherlock looks at him. “Isn’t there supposed to be magic?” he asks, feeling the bridge of his nose crease. “At least at the beginning? I’m given to understand that most relationships have some degree of it.” 

John keeps his eyes on the coffee now dripping into the rather nice clay mug he put under the spout, his hands on his hips. He shakes his head. “Probably,” he says. “I’m just being cynical. Maybe you get too old for magic after a certain point. I certainly didn’t have any with Mary.” 

It’s been months since he’s even said her name. Sherlock wants to tread carefully. It’s just past eleven now; they’ve got a bit of time before the meet-and-greet – or as he’d prefer to think of it, time to size everyone up. “Not even at the beginning?” he asks, keeping his voice light. 

John shakes his head again. “No. She was – ” He struggles for the word. “A safe choice. Or was supposed to be. But not an exciting one.” He shrugs. “What flavour do you want? Do you want a coffee?” 

Sherlock blinks at the abrupt switch of topic but lets it go. “The same as yours. Please.” 

John removes his cup and repeats the process for Sherlock, then moves off to search for milk in the fridge. He adds some to his cup and stirs it in. “What else is on the schedule?” he asks. 

Sherlock consults it again. “Let’s see… after the circle meeting we have some free time before supper, then tonight there’s a billiards tournament in the bar. Tomorrow morning we have another circle meeting, then a couples massage in the afternoon. Interesting. There’s a lot of free time, during which it says we’re encouraged to hike or spend time together in our room – subtle – or take advantage of the spa facilities. After supper tomorrow there’s apparently a wet t-shirt contest in the bar.” He makes a derisive sound. 

John shakes his head. “What else?”

Sherlock continues. “On Wednesday it looks like the therapy starts getting more serious: we have a circle meeting in the morning, then a two-hour private session with a counsellor in the afternoon.” He falls silent, thinking. “We basically only have two pre-set activities each day. We can request more activities to be scheduled during the free times, it says. We just have to put it on the card.” 

John nods. “I see.” He wanders abstractedly over to the left side of the bed and opens the drawer of the night table. His eyebrows rise and he clears his throat. “Er, wow.” 

Sherlock is watching him. “What is it?” 

“We’re, er, well-stocked for all eventualities,” John says, holding up and shaking a large box of condoms of assorted varieties. Next he pulls out a large silicon dildo, made in a ludicrous shade of green, then several sizes of butt plugs all still in their packaging. “There’s quite an array of lubricants here, as well.” 

Curious, Sherlock goes to see what’s in the drawer on the other side. His contains handcuffs (both pink and furry, and neither), an even larger black dildo made of a more rigid material, what appears to be flavoured body paint, and even more lubricant. He can’t quite meet John’s eyes. They should be able to giggle about this, he thinks, but neither of them is. Instead, it’s just a bit awkward. “Well, given the nature of the place,” he says diplomatically, and shuts the drawer again. “I suppose they’re hoping for reconciliations to occur.” 

“Right, yeah,” John says. He sips his coffee and falls silent. 

Sherlock realises that the coffee machine has stopped and goes to take his cup from beneath the spout, anything to change the subject. He locates sugar and mixes it in with precision, then takes off his coat and hangs it up. “Am I dressed acceptably, do you think?” he asks, suddenly wondering. He gestures at himself. “Is this too much?” 

He’s wearing his midnight blue shirt with a pair of black wool trousers, no jacket. John is wearing dark denim jeans and his navy-and-forest checked shirt. The blue of his shirt matches the midnight of his own, Sherlock notices, but is definitely not going to point out. John surveys him. “Yeah, you look fine,” he says. “Some people might be more casual, but you’re fine. Do we need to bring any of that with us to the meet-and-greet, or the circle thing?” 

Sherlock picks up the package and reads over the instructions. “‘Please wear your name tags on Monday. After Monday, it won’t be necessarily. Please be sure to sign your guest agreement and bring it to the front desk during the meet-and-greet.’” He looks at the following pages. “I suppose that would be this.” He holds it out and John comes over to see. There are also two blank name tags for them to fill out. He pulls out a chair and sits down, pulling the paper out of one of them to write _Sherlock_ on it. “I don’t suppose we should even bother trying to hide who we are,” he says mildly. 

“Not much point,” John agrees, but his attention is more on the guest agreement. “Sherlock, listen to this: we have to sign to say we’re going to follow the rules. One of which is that we’re not supposed to sleep with other people.” 

He sounds amused. Sherlock feels his brows lift. “Ah. Well, I assume that won’t be an issue, given the circumstances. Even if all the other staff are as young as fit as Kyle.” 

John gives him an odd look and clears his throat. “Er, no. Won’t be an issue. I just thought that would be understood, given that this place is for couples counselling and all that.” 

“Still,” Sherlock says briskly, pushing John’s name pin over to him. “A bunch of people cooped up together in the hills, romantic setting, lots of other people of the same orientation. I’m sure it happens.” 

John frowns at his name tag but doesn’t comment on this. He writes _John_ on the paper, then reaches over and signs above his name on the guest agreement. 

Sherlock skims over the rest of the rules, which seem quite straightforward, and signs his name beside John’s. He checks the time. “We’d better get going,” he says, and drinks the rest of his coffee. 

“Right. Okay.” John gets up, looks around, then puts his key in his pocket. “Let’s go.” 

Sherlock follows him, feeling an odd sense of anticipation despite the reason why they’re here. If nothing else, this will certainly prove to be an interesting week. 

*** 

Sherlock estimates that there are forty-six people at the meet-and-greet. They are given a glass of champagne upon turning in their guest agreement and told to go and mingle. He and John dissolve into the crowd and make urbane smalltalk. They aren’t the oldest ones there, Sherlock notes, thinking that John must feel reassured by that – though why this matters to him when they’re only posing as a couple in the first place is a mystery to him. After twenty minutes or so, Kyle steps onto a chair and calls for quiet. He identifies himself as the Front of House Manager, then welcomes everyone to Ravine Valley and manages to make everyone laugh as he goes through the basic outline of the program, the rules, and how everything works. Next he introduces the other staff members, and invites them to speak briefly. 

First up is Lucas Brennan, the president. He’s in his early forties but quite good-looking and fit, Sherlock notes. “Hello gentlemen, and welcome to Ravine Valley,” he begins. His voice is low and smooth and it’s clear that he’s very much accustomed to giving this speech. “Kyle’s already taken you through the basics of what we do here, but allow me to go a little deeper. In your welcome packages, you’ll have seen the maps of the hiking trails on our grounds. That’s right: we own all of the land behind the facilities here, acres and acres of it, so you’ve got plenty of space to get back in touch with yourselves, your partners, and nature while you’re here, and I hope you’ll all take advantage of that. I started Ravine Valley fifteen years ago when my partner Todd and I were going through a difficult patch in our relationship. We tried regular couples counselling just in London, but wished there was some manner of group therapy to provide that sense of community, of not being alone in having relationship problems. At the time, we didn’t feel either welcome or comfortable in any of the group therapy sessions we tried. We were always the only gay couple and – politically correct or otherwise, I’ll be the first to say that same-sex couples have their own issues. You’ll see on the optional sessions that we offer workshops and discussion groups on topics like: Coming out to one’s family. Gay adoption. Topping and bottoming, and what to do when you’re not compatible that way. Gay men and monogamy: it _is_ possible. Societal homophobia and various approaches in dealing with it. Even the very fact that discussing relationship issues with the general populace can be awkward for us makes it more challenging to work through our problems. You’ll see that we have a workshop discussing shame and identity and how those issues can affect a relationship. While you’re hiking, as we hope you will, you’ll see the ravine for which we’ve named our facility here. There’s a stone bridge that crosses it, and for Todd and I, it was the perfect metaphor for what we’re trying to do here. The ravine seems dangerously deep, but with that solid stone bridge there, it doesn’t matter. We’re here to help you build bridges in your own relationships, and we’ve got the very best staff we could find to help you do that.” 

Lucas points. “This is my husband and partner Todd. He has a doctorate in psychology, as you’ll see in our staff bios, and specialises in group therapy for same-sex male couples. He’ll be leading your circle meetings.”

Todd waves. He’s about eight years younger than Lucas and is pleasant-looking, with light-brown hair and blue eyes. “Hi, everyone. Welcome to Ravine Valley. You’ll see in your packages that you’ve been assigned a group number: that’s your number for your circle meetings. We’ve divided you into groups of five couples. Listen – as Lucas said, he and I have been through this, and we know how awkward it can feel to air your dirty laundry in front of strangers. We know, believe me! I just want to assure you right now that you’re all in the same boat, and it’s going to be okay!” 

Everyone laughs, John included, Sherlock notes. Lucas moves on. “This woman right here may be the most important member of our staff,” he says, and she smiles and tries to wave it off, but he insists. “This is Margaret. You’ll all have at least two hours with Margaret in a private counselling session between you and your partner. If I have one word of advice, it’s this: be open with Margaret. She will see it when you’re hiding things! Margaret _knows_.” 

Again, this is received with laughter, this time slightly more nervous, and there is a lot of shuffling of feet. Margaret gives them a wave and a serene smile, but doesn’t say anything. 

Lucas moves on, introducing the spa staff, the activity leaders, and the kitchen staff, including the acclaimed five-star chef, Kirk Andrews. “Hello everyone,” Kirk says affably, and a chorus of admiring-sounding hellos echo from the group. “I’m your in-house chef, which means that my staff and I are here to cater – quite literally – to your every whim. If you want chocolate mousse torte at midnight, say the word. The kitchens are open until two in the morning. If you’re craving chips during your afternoon break, ring up room service. Importantly, if you’ve got allergies or food intolerances, please mark it on your daily card. We’re able and more than willing to handle lactose-intolerance, gluten intolerance – I know we’ve got someone with Celiac disease here this week – ah yes, hi there!” Kirk addresses the young man who puts up his hand in the corner. “We’ve got a separate miniature kitchen that we prepare gluten-free things in, as well as another separate unit for nut allergies. You can rest assured that whether you just don’t like mushrooms or don’t eat animal products, we’ve got a menu for you. You’ll see that there are three listed options for each meal the following day, and we just ask you to check off your preferences on your daily card. If it turns out that you don’t like any of the options, write down what you’d rather eat. It’s that easy. We’re here for you. You’re here to work out one of the most important things in your lives and we know that feelings will be running high while you’re here. Food should be the least of your concerns. That, and we just want you to eat well! And trust me, no one’s going to raise their eyebrows at a request for chocolate syrup or a bottle of wine during your afternoon or evening free sessions, if you catch my drift. We’ve seen everything, and no one’s judging. You’re here to rebuild and work things out, and we’re here to help in whatever way we can.” 

This is met with hearty applause, and John looks at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed. Sherlock has to admit that he’s impressed, too, and nods at John with a quirk of his own brows. 

Lucas steps out again. “On a final note, you’ve all just handed in your guest agreements. I just want to say that we take these very seriously. The rules are here for your protection – for instance, no hiking past nine in the evening. The rocky terrain can be treacherous and so we keep the area beyond the hills off limits after nine. We’re also very much in earnest about the rules pertaining to fidelity. You’re here to work on your relationships and we take that very seriously. Trust me, the staff here are, with the exception of Margaret, gay men. We know how it is. Rule number eight, which you’ve all put your signatures to, specifies no visiting other guest rooms, and no sexual relations with anyone other than your partner. If you’re swingers and want to get together with another couple – or several others – make arrangements to meet up back in London, or wherever you’ve come from today. But not here. I trust that’s understood.” He surveys them sternly for a moment, then relaxes into a smile. “We want you to enjoy yourselves and most importantly, we want you to leave this place happier and healthier than you are today. That’s our mission, and we’re committed to it. Have a great week, gentlemen.” 

The applause is polite, and when it seems that the speeches are over, the chatter begins to rise again. Kyle steps back onto his chair and waves his arms. “One last thing!” he calls. “Lunch will be served in the dining room in fifteen minutes, then Group One will meet in the common room for their first circle meeting starting at one. The only thing you need to bring is your partner! For some of you, you have spa services scheduled, and for the rest of you, there is a list of activities and discussions pinned to the bulletin board just beside my desk here. For this afternoon, we have: a discussion in the courtyard on the topic of Love at First Sight. In the dining room, there will be a demonstration by our sous-chef Jean-François Létournault on baking croissants. And I myself will be leading a walking tour of the grounds behind the hills. If anyone has any questions while I’m away from the front desk, you can ask my assistant Paul. Have a great afternoon and see you at dinner at six!” 

The chatter rises around them again, and Sherlock looks at John. “We’re in Group One,” he says. 

John nods. “Yeah. I guess we’re just going to have to wing it,” he replies. “We’ll be as honest as possible, but – I guess we’ll have to cross each bridge when we come to it, in terms of what to do when they ask us something unexpected.” 

“That’s what I was thinking.” Sherlock finishes his champagne and sets his glass down on the tray of a passing server, who stops to wait as John drains his glass and passes it over. “Shall we go and find seats for lunch?” 

“Sure.” 

Lunch proves to be a buffet of sandwiches, salads, and soups, all of which are delicious. They sit by themselves in a corner and watch their fellow guests, or ‘inmates’ as John jokingly calls them. It strikes Sherlock that John feels as uneasy about this as he does. 

Afterward, they wander into the common room and find that they’re not the first ones there. Another couple is already seated in one of the love seats that have been arranged into a circle. They look up as Sherlock and John come in, then get up and come over. One is tall, blond, and very obviously attractive, while his partner is five centimetres shorter with dark hair, not at all unattractive, but in a less flashy way than the first.

The blond advances, holding out his hand to shake. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Jeremy.” 

“Scott,” his partner volunteers. 

Sherlock and John identify themselves and they all shake hands. Jeremy clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Nervous?” 

Sherlock looks at John, who looks back at him. “A little,” John admits. “We’ve never done anything like this before.” 

Jeremy shakes his head. “Us neither.” 

“It was time,” Scott says, a little too evenly, and Sherlock notes the firm set to the corners of his mouth. 

Jeremy looks at him, a tight smile forming. “Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat. “Well – I guess we’re all going to learn about each other’s issues soon enough.” 

“Should be fun,” John says, with a rather forced laugh, and Scott glances at Sherlock and smiles slightly. 

Another pair comes in then, but before anyone can make introductions, Todd comes in with Margaret, along with four other men, and he invites them all to find a seat. Margaret closes the double doors and sits down beside Todd in one of the love seats. Sherlock looks at her curiously: the only woman on an all-male staff, quite possibly an all-gay staff, at that. She must be in her upper forties or lower fifties, wears wire-rimmed glasses and has curly, fly-away greying hair that somehow suits her rather well. Her attire is long and flowing and seems to suit the slight other-worldiness that seems to accompany professionals in her field. She radiates serenity, yet her eyes are sharp, her mouth lined by humour and gentleness both. He decides, logical or otherwise, that he likes her immediately. 

Everyone has sat down. Todd reintroduces himself and welcomes everyone, then reintroduces Margaret, too. “Margaret is just here this first time,” he says. “We have a rather limited time with you, so it’s a good way for her to get to observe you all, see where you are, in preparation for your one-on-one sessions with her later in the week. Now: let’s go around and hear from you. Introduce yourselves and your partners, and if you want to give us a brief idea of what you’re working on as a couple this week, go right ahead. Why don’t you two start?” he suggest, turning to the couple on his right. 

It’s the third couple that came in, one of the pairs definitely older than he and John, Sherlock notices. The one called Doug introduces them both as Doug and Brad respectively. Doug gruffly informs them that they’re looking to find their spark again. Boring. Typical. Predictable, Sherlock thinks. 

The next pair is in their early thirties, one white, the other possibly Indian, Sherlock thinks. They introduce themselves as Andrew and Avi and Avi says quietly that they have trouble dealing with their families, neither of whom approve of their union. Todd probes and Andrew explains that Avi’s family cared less about the fact that he’s with a male than the fact that said male wasn’t Indian. Avi glances at him and adds that being gay isn’t great, either, as far as his parents are concerned. Andrew’s parents haven’t spoken to him since he told them that he was seeing Avi. 

Next it’s Jeremy and Scott. They explain their professions first – Jeremy is a fitness trainer and Scott is a veterinarian. They talk for several minutes about their life in general until Todd interrupts gently to prompt them. Scott then says very quietly that they’ve had some issues with infidelity. Jeremy looks at his knees and doesn’t add anything to this, and Sherlock immediately identifies their problem. 

The fourth couple is Justin and Thom, who are twenty-eight and twenty-seven, and revoltingly young, attractive, and fit – and come from money, too. They share their allotted talking time, finishing each other’s sentences and talking over one another in a way that doesn’t seem to take from the other so much as support and add. They seem eager to talk about their issue, which seems to be related to making the shift from their current lifestyle to their next chapter, as Thom calls it. Todd asks about their current lifestyle and they exchange looks and suddenly seem much less keen to overshare, Sherlock notes cynically. He eyes them and thinks, _sexual proclivities_. 

Finally it’s their turn. Todd smiles at them. “Of course, we all know who you two are already,” he says easily. “You’re not our first celebrity couple, but it’s still rare. And I’m just speaking for myself, but I did always wonder about the two of you. I’m glad I was right. So: what brings the great Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson to our humble facility? We’re not under investigation, I hope!” 

Everyone laughs, to Sherlock’s slight relief. “No, of course not,” he says, lying smoothly. “We’re here for the same reason as anyone else: to work on our relationship.” 

Todd nods, though his eyes are calculating, knowing that Sherlock hasn’t said enough. “It must be difficult, being in the public eye the way the two of you are,” he says. “For instance, I know almost nothing about the lives of anyone else here, but with you two – I’ll admit freely that I’m pretty curious about the whole wife thing, Doctor Watson.” 

John gives Sherlock a quick glance with a slight shrug, as though to say, _Well, I guess they all know about Mary already_ , then says, “Call me John, please. Yeah. That was – an interesting, er, phase for us. We’re… trying to move past it.” 

Todd nods again. “It sounds complicated. But then, life is complicated. Love is complicated. We’ll have a good crack at all that this week! All right, next what I’d like you to do is each say one thing you love about your partner. After that, I’m going to give you some questions to ask each other, and I want you to answer as honestly as possible, to the best of your ability. Brad and Doug, why don’t you start us off?” 

They look at each other and Brad shifts, obviously uncomfortable. “Er, I guess I’d have to say that I love the way Doug’s always shared my interests. I’d never met anyone else who liked football as much as I do and I’ve always liked that it’s something we can share.” 

Doug smiles at this and says, “I guess it sounds pretty basic, but I’ve always loved that Brad doesn’t mind being the one who works harder, which lets me stay home and run my online business.” 

“That’s great,” Todd says. “Really great. Next!” 

The other couples talk and Sherlock wracks his brain trying to think of something which is both true, yet won’t scare John off. Todd calls on John first, to his relief. 

John is clearly less comfortable. “Er… well, you all know how intelligent he is,” he says, obviously ill at ease. “I’ve always loved that. Yeah.” 

Todd gazes at John, his eyes compassionate but not judgemental. “You’re right,” he says, nicely. “We do all know that, John. What about something a little more personal, that you love and maybe no one else even knows about?” 

John swallows and Sherlock watches him, blinking and feeling as much put on the spot as John does. John fidgets with his hands for a bit, then says, “Well… er, maybe some of you don’t know, but – I was married for a bit. To… a woman. We had a baby. A little girl. She… died. Six months ago. And Sherlock has been incredible. Totally supportive and just… there for me, all the time. He’s been like a rock.” 

He doesn’t look at Sherlock as he says this, and Sherlock feels that he can hardly breathe. He swallows several times, then finds Todd’s gentle gaze on him, expectant. He clears his throat and speaks rapidly, his voice low. “What I’ve always loved about John is that I can always rely on him to be there, too. People think – I don’t know what people think, but – I’d be nothing without John. I _am_ nothing without John. He’s more than my back-up or sidekick or whatever people think. He’s – my conductor of light. My shield and defender.” 

There’s a small silence and he glances up to find Todd smiling at him, his face gentle. “Good,” he says softly. “Very good, everyone.” 

He leans back and explains the list of questions they’re to discuss with one another now, with the expectation of disclosing some of their answers with the group, while Todd moves around and listens in a little. Sherlock looks at John, feeling awkward about how much he just said, and still very much moved by what John said about his support as he was grieving Rosie’s death. “So,” he says uncertainly. “Should we – start with the first question?” 

John nods, then pulls himself out of his reverie and looks at him. “Thanks for what you said,” he says quietly. “That – that means a lot to me. I haven’t been there for you enough in the last – well, since you came back. I – I know that.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says, then adds, “I’m glad you feel I’ve been helpful lately, since Rosie…”

John nods. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “You have. I meant that.” He clears his throat. “Okay: first question. What was your first impression of me when we met?” 

Sherlock smiles. “You already know that, because I told you at the time,” he says. 

“That doesn’t cut it, Sherlock,” Todd says, materialising behind their loveseat. “The whole point is to go through it again!” 

Sherlock acknowledges this and Todd moves off, grinning. “All right: I thought you were a soldier who had served time in either Afghanistan or Iraq. I thought you had a psychosomatic limp. I thought you were incredibly stubborn – strong-willed – since you weren’t accepting help from your family. I thought you were incredibly brave: a doctor who voluntarily joined the army in an active war zone. I thought you were a better-than-average human being in general.” 

John watches him, smiling slightly. “You called me a war hero, during our first taxi ride,” he reminds Sherlock. 

Sherlock nods. “So I did. And so you were.” This is getting a little much, so he turns the question back to John. “And you? What did you think of me?” 

“I thought you were a lunatic,” John says very frankly, and they both burst into laughter. It draws looks from everyone else in the room, but John ignores this. “I mean, you’ve read my blog. You know I wasn’t sure what to think. But yeah – I thought you were eccentric and brilliant, for sure.” 

“Don’t forget incredibly handsome,” Todd says, breezing by again, with a wink at Sherlock. 

John coughs. “Anyway, it worked: I moved in the very next day, didn’t I?” 

“You did,” Sherlock confirms. “And our lives have never been the same.” 

John looks up, directly into his eyes. “No,” he says. His eyes are a bit shadowed and Sherlock doesn’t know how to read the dark emotion in his eyes. “They haven’t.” 

*** 

When the circle meeting ends, Sherlock finds himself emotionally drained. The group breaks up, Todd and Margaret going back to the office area behind the front desk and along the left wall of the dining room, and the other couples wander off in the direction of the guest room wings. He and John glance in at the croissant-baking group now in the kitchen, who are now admiring and consuming their project, then make for their own room. 

“It’s four now,” John says. “We have a couple of hours. Do you fancy having a look at those trails? I’m curious to see the grounds while it’s still light.” 

Sherlock approves of this plan. “Indeed. It would give us a chance to discuss our observations thus far, too.” 

John glances back over his shoulder at him and agrees, but doesn’t say it: obviously he’s aware that the buildings may have electronic surveillance, too. It would never do to let on that they are indeed on an investigation. They reach their room and John scans his card through the reader. “I’m going to take my jacket. Could be cool up here in the hills.” 

“Good thought.” Sherlock pulls on his coat. “Do we need anything else?” 

“The map, maybe,” John says. He goes to the table and finds it in their package. “Got it. Let’s go.” 

They walk through the north wing and exit through the back building where the spa and counselling rooms are, to a door leading out onto the grounds. The walking tour that Kyle led is just returning, the walkers looking tired but content. Kyle greets them and asks if they brought their map. John shows him that they have, and Kyle gives them a direction or two, as there are multiple trails. They thank him and move off. 

The buildings are set just at the foot of four high, bare stone hills of iron grey, rising like walls behind the facilities. There is a narrow gap between the second and third, a trail leading through to the valley beyond. Sherlock leads the way, John right behind him. On the far side of the hills, they see the valley in the distance, encircled by still more hills. There is a lake at the lowest point of the valley, and a sign posted gives directions for would-be swimmers to descend to the valley floor. Other trails would keep them within the hills, some steeper than others. As they consult the map, Sherlock points to the three-kilometre trail that would take them to the ravine and the stone bridge, and John agrees. 

The scenery is breathtakingly beautiful. John stops to take photos on his phone now and then, and Sherlock eventually concedes and takes a few, himself. They find the ravine after twenty minutes of relatively level walking. The path leads directly to the stone bridge, but there’s a rail on either side of it for people to just stand and look down, which they do. The ravine is indeed forbiddingly deep, the bottom hidden from view as rocky outcroppings and tree branches veil the bottom from sight. The sound of rushing water can be heard from far off, and John comments that the lake must turn into a river at some point. 

He pushes himself off the rail. “Is this the end of the trail? Do we just turn around now, or is it a loop?” 

Sherlock shows him the map. “Either, I think. It is a loop. Do you want to continue or turn back?” 

John shrugs. “We might as well continue. I kind of want to cross the bridge.” 

Sherlock agrees. The bridge is a curving arc of stone with stone rails on either side. It’s sturdily built, if old, and doesn’t even tremble at their crossing. They stop in the middle to look down, and now there’s a glimpse of white water rushing below, perhaps two hundred metres beneath them. Sherlock doesn’t look at John, but experiences a sudden, dizzying desire to kiss him. Here – where no one can see them or remark upon it, where John wouldn’t have to worry about anyone’s reaction or how it looks. Right here in the middle of the bridge, their arms around each other. The desire is so strong that he nearly experiences it as vertigo, putting a hand on the stone rail to steady himself. 

John glances at him curiously. “You all right?” he asks lightly. 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Fine.” 

John gives him a tight smile, still looking a bit puzzled, then nods toward the path ahead. “Let’s go, then.” 

They walk back. The path takes them through the trees now, and Sherlock notices that on this side, the hills are lined in green. It must be that the valley side is more protected from the elements, he reasons, then decides to share this observation aloud with John. John agrees and says he’d noticed the same thing. There’s an easier companionship between them now than there was when they first arrived, Sherlock thinks. It’s progress. Or perhaps they’re both just feeling mellow due to the walk and the beauty of their surroundings. Either way, he’s glad of it, and thinks that he can see why Ravine Valley has the reputation it does for helping couples with their relationships. He wishes again that he and John were here for that and nothing more. 

Back in their room, John decides to take a shower before dinner. Sherlock sits down with his laptop and makes a few notes about the staff and the other guests, and realises only then that they completely forgot to discuss their findings during the walk. 

*** 

Dinner more than exceeded expectations of the renowned kitchen staff, particularly the chef, who modestly came out to receive a round of applause. Sherlock chose lamb shank braised in a brandy demi-glace and served with mashed potatoes and carrots swimming in butter. John had prime rib and chose the same sides. Liquor is also included in the package, so they shared a bottle of merlot. John ordered crème brûlée for dessert and Sherlock chose a vanilla bean ricotta cheesecake so light he barely noticed it slipping down. It was delicious, and they had the added incentive of using the time to observe their fellow guests, as they’d planned in advance. 

Jeremy and Scott chose to sit with them, Scott to John’s right, so every now and then, the conversation widened. Afterwards, Jeremy invited them to play in the billiards tournament with them, so Sherlock looked at John and they agreed simultaneously. To both their surprise, Sherlock was much the better player, though John wasn’t half bad. Sherlock hadn’t played since university days and said so, crediting the wine. Regardless, there were many better players and they soon found themselves ousted by better couples. Leaning on their cues, they stood in a corner and talked about the other men in the room, Sherlock deducing and John chipping in his own observations here and there. 

Now they’re back in their room, and suddenly things feel awkward again. Not terribly so, but enough that Sherlock is certain that John’s noticed, too. John strips down to his boxer shorts and changes into an old t-shirt while he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Sherlock changes quickly, taking John’s lead in terms of attire. He doesn’t own boxer shorts, but brought boxer briefs specifically for this event, and pulls on a t-shirt long enough for modesty. When John comes out of the bathroom, Sherlock goes in and brushes his teeth and washes his face. He uses the toilet, then washes his hands and re-enters the main room with some trepidation. 

John is sitting at the desk with his laptop, but closes it and gets up now. He goes automatically to the same side of the bed he chose earlier when looking into the night table drawers, the right side, so Sherlock goes and stands across from him on the left. It’s the side he would have preferred, anyway. “Look,” John says, very prosaically. “We’re both adults. This is for a case. We’ll just – be professional about this, yeah?” 

Sherlock somehow feels a bit stung. “We’re friends,” he says, a bit stiffly. “I don’t see any particular need to be ‘professional’. Obviously we’ll just – keep to our own sides.” 

“No different from me and Mary, then,” John says dryly, and gets into bed. 

Sherlock follows suit, feeling awkward. He keeps himself in a straight line on his back, limbs held close to his body. “Oh?”

John picks up a remote control and switches off the overhead light with it, then turns on the lamp on his night table. “Yeah. There was always a good metre of space between us. You know we hadn’t been, er, intimate since the honeymoon.” 

Sherlock finds himself rather surprised by this. “Not at all?” he asks, his gaze directed at the ceiling. 

“A grand total of four times,” John says. “And none of them worked.” 

Sherlock hesitates, not wanting to ask anything too graphic. “Worked…?” he repeats, not sure not to word the question. 

John sighs. “I don’t want to get into it. I lost my attraction for her when she shot you, all right? It was hard to – well. ‘Hard’ is possibly the wrong word.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock comprehends immediately. “I see.” 

“Not every time,” John says, sounding a bit flustered. “But – yeah. Either it was that, or something else. Nobody was, er, satisfied. It’s difficult, when you just don’t want to any more. Not with that person, at least. And then Rosie came and we were both so tired, and fighting a lot… yeah.” 

“I see,” Sherlock says again, when it becomes clear that John isn’t going to elaborate any further. “I hadn’t realised.” 

“Yeah, well, what can you do,” John says, which doesn’t really tell him anything. He turns onto his side, away from Sherlock, and switches off the lamp he just turned on. “I’m going to sleep. Did you put the card out on the door?” 

“Yes. Good night,” Sherlock says, and turns onto his side, too, away from John. He waits, listening, trying to breathe evenly, trying not to do anything John would deem strange or inappropriate. He can feel John’s body heat beneath the shared blankets and is trying not to think about it. He’s never shared a bed with another person before, not even as a child. It’s more intimate than he expected, even with their backs to one another. He can’t fall asleep with John listening, or with John aware of him there. He waits, keeping himself quiet. John moves and fidgets a little, legs moving restlessly, and Sherlock knows that he isn’t sleeping. An awkward wall of silence has formed between them, both of them perfectly aware that the other party isn’t sleeping, yet neither of them acknowledging it. 

Eventually, though, John’s breathing slows. When he begins to snore, very lightly, Sherlock feels his muscles relax at last. He cautiously lets himself settle more fully into the mattress. It takes another fifteen minutes after that, but finally he falls asleep. 

*** 

He wakes in the early dawn hours and finds himself face-to-face with John, who has also just woken and is blinking. Their faces are inches apart, their forearms touching beneath the covers, knees bumping together. They’re both startled. Sherlock swallows and attempts to speak. “Er – sorry,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep, and moves away, turning onto his other side. 

John mumbles something along the lines of “It’s fine,” and does the same. 

Sherlock adjusts his pillow, squirming internally at the awkwardness of it. At least he didn’t attempt to hug John in his sleep or something along those lines. His heart is thumping unpleasantly. He attempts to wait for John to fall asleep first again, but sleep washes over him almost instantly. 

The alarm rings perhaps two hours later. Sherlock reaches out an arm to turn it off, then risks a look over at John, who hasn’t heard it. John is on his back, breathing deeply but not snoring. Sherlock’s eye drifts lower and catches the rise of flesh below John’s midsection and he gets stuck there, staring at it. At the moment, he wants nothing more than to turn toward John, slide over to him under the blankets and reach down to touch him there, let his fingers feel the hardness of his flesh, touch it lovingly, find John’s mouth with his own… he shakes his head. This is ridiculous. Their physical proximity has let his imagination get the better of him. This will never do.

He hastily gets out of the bed and goes to collect the day’s clothing to take with him into the bathroom. His own body is mimicking John’s and he’s privately very glad that John isn’t awake to see it. He shuts himself in the marble bathroom and sets his clothes down on the counter, then strips off his pyjamas and attempts to figure out the many jets and shower heads available in the shower. It’s a very nice shower, once he’s got it arranged to his liking, jets of water hitting the right places to soothe his back and shoulder muscles. It’s fully stocked with a wide array of products, too, and he searches deliberately for the ones he smelled on John before and during dinner yesterday. The shower gel John chose is easy enough to find; it’s the only one lighter than the other bottles. It smells like a mixture of fresh mountain air and cedar, and he lathers it over himself and thinks without shame of waking up face-to-face with John in the night as he strokes himself. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to the real thing, so he doesn’t deny himself these small, very private fantasies. 

Twenty minutes later he emerges from the bathroom, dressed and shaved and feeling refreshed, and finds that John is up and dressed and is making coffee. John looks up. “Morning,” he says. “Perfect timing: I was just about to ask if you’d like a cup of coffee.” 

Sherlock accedes. “I would. Thank you. It doesn’t matter which, as long as it’s not decaf.” 

“I thought as much.”

John is wearing a red and black checked shirt today, which is one of Sherlock’s favourites. He’s wearing a claret-coloured shirt and black trousers, and is privately pleased that they match again. He accepts the cup of coffee that John gives him a moment later and thanks him again. “Did you put – ”

“Two spoonfuls,” John assures him. He sits down at the table they’re both using as a desk. “Breakfast is in twenty minutes and then we have a circle meeting. What’s in the afternoon? Remind me?” 

Sherlock picks up the schedule and takes a look. “A couples massage,” he says. “I wonder what that entails. Have you ever gone for one?” 

“A couples massage?” John snorts. “Actually, I almost did, once. With Jeanette. You remember her. The boring teacher. She _was_ boring.” 

Sherlock snickers. “Told you. What happened?” 

John winces. “We had a crime scene and I forgot. She was furious. It was expensive, and she’d already paid for it. So no, I’ve never had a couples massage. I imagine it’s like a regular massage, only both of us in the same room.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock looks down at the sheet of paper in his hand. “I’ve never gone for a regular massage, either.” 

“No?” John doesn’t sound surprised. “You’re not really one to pamper yourself, are you? You might like it. There are different techniques that you can read up about before lunch, if you want. Or – hang on.” He looks into the package folder and pulls out a pamphlet on the spa services offered. “Look, you can just read this: it outlines the differences between the main massage techniques. Shiatsu, Swedish, therapeutic, et cetera.” 

He passes it over and Sherlock takes it. “I don’t know what I want,” he says, frowning at it. 

“Then just say Swedish,” John advises. “That’s for relaxation. That’s what I was going to request, if they ask. I sort of assume it’s the default, anyway.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock puts the pamphlet down. “How does one usually attire oneself? Is nudity customary?” 

John nods. “Or you can leave your underwear on. Your choice.” 

Sherlock files this away and changes the subject. “What did you order for breakfast?” he asks, sipping his coffee. 

“The eggs benedict with smoked salmon,” John says. “Same as you.” He glances at the time, then says, “I’m just going to shave before we go.” 

“Sure.” John goes and Sherlock opens his laptop to check his email. Ten minutes later, they leave, locking the room door behind them. Sherlock finds himself almost looking forward seeing what day two will bring. 

*** 

“We’re going to be talking about conflict today,” Todd announces. He’s alone on his loveseat today; Margaret is not there. “No one likes to talk about fighting – when things are good, we like to pretend that the bad times never existed at all, but that doesn’t help prepare us for what to do the next time things stop going well. This is our topic for today. First question: what do you fight about? Andrew and Avi, why don’t you start us off?” 

Sherlock listens as Avi starts off by talking about housework versus their jobs, feeling that he comes second to Andrew’s work, and Andrew responds by talking about Avi’s reluctance to adopt a child. Avi responds by saying that Andrew works too much and would never be around to be a parent, yet he’s the one pushing the idea. 

“Do you want to be a parent?” Todd asks him, curious. 

Avi shrugs. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it before Andrew brought it up. It’s not that I’m unwilling, per se; it’s just never been something that I feel like I absolutely have to do. It’s not something that my personal sense of fulfilment depends on, if that makes sense. It’s not that I dislike kids or anything. I’m just not sure it’s completely my thing.” 

John, Sherlock notes, is watching Avi with great interest, his lips slightly parted. Sherlock wonders if he’s thinking of Rosie. 

Andrew looks at Avi. “You never said all this before,” he says, a bit stiffly. “I never knew it ‘wasn’t your thing’.” 

Todd raises a finger. “Sometimes these things clarify themselves later, or only when someone asks,” he says. “How do you feel, Andrew? Have you always wanted to be a parent?” 

The discussion goes on. They learn that Scott and Jeremy fight about Jeremy’s fidelity in particular. “How many incidents have there been?” Todd asks, addressing Jeremy directly. 

Jeremy exhales and says, “Two.” 

“Three,” Scott corrects, under his breath. 

Todd looks at them both. “Is it two or three?” he asks, his voice steady and non-judgemental. 

Jeremy glares at his knees. “ _Two_ ,” he says. Then, to Scott, “You know the one when we’d broken up doesn’t count.” 

“It counted to me,” Scott says, through a tight jaw. 

Todd talks to them a little more, then shifts to Justin and Thom. “What do you two fight about?” he asks. 

“What don’t we fight about?” Justin says with a slightly bitter laugh. “The flat, how we decorate it, how we spend our money, what we eat and where, or who’s cooking, you name it.” 

Thom looks at him. “But they’re never terrible fights,” he says. “They never last long. We’re never worried that it’s the end or anything.”

Justin looks at him and reaches for his hand, smiling. “No,” he agrees. “And there’s always make-up sex later.” 

Todd surveys them. “Do you fight about sex?” he asks. 

They hesitate, then Thom nods. “A little,” he admits. 

Todd nods, too. “That’s normal,” he says. “Most couples’ fights originate in either sex or money issues. Do you fight about money?” 

“Not as much,” Thom tells him. “Sex would be the bigger one.” 

“Sex is our main topic for tomorrow,” Todd says. “But you can share about it now, if you like.” 

Sherlock feels a private frisson of uneasy anticipation at this announcement and notices John shifting his weight beside him. What on earth are they going to say when it comes time to talk about their sex life?! 

Thom talks candidly about the fact that both he and Justin normally consider themselves bottoms, and what to do with the fact that someone has to top. “I mean, obviously there are lots of other things we can do – and we do – but sometimes there are nights when we both just want to bottom. So we take turns and all that, but I wish one of us just liked topping more, I guess.” 

“Same,” Justin says, still holding Thom’s hand. “I’ve actually tried – pretty hard, actually – to make myself like topping more, just for Thom’s sake. I mean, we switch and it works, I guess, but it would help if we were more compatible that way.” 

Sherlock glances around the room and notes that the subject has made everyone in the room either tense or aroused or some combination of both, with the exception of Todd. John has his legs crossed at the knee and he’s cleared his throat at least three times since the most attractive couple in the room started discussing their sex life. 

When Todd comes to them, they glance at each other. Sherlock doesn’t know where to start or how much to say, so he defers to John. The problem is, they don’t really fight about anything trivial. They’ve only fought about huge, life-altering things: Mary’s death. His own, falsified death. Moriarty and how to deal with him. John clears his throat again and says, “Well, he’s rubbish at taking out the trash,” and Sherlock relaxes a little. 

“It’s true,” he agrees. “I also run experiments that take over the kitchen sometimes. John doesn’t like that.” 

“It’s more the body parts in the fridge that I mind,” John says dryly, which makes the others laugh. “While the science equipment all over the table is annoying, I do realise that it’s for your work. It’s important.” 

“But does make it hard to sit down to a meal, perhaps,” Todd agrees. “Sherlock? What about you? What instigates fights on your part?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth, then realises he has no idea what to say. The only things he could possibly complain about are too large to raise here. “Nothing,” he says at last. “I’m – just glad he’s there.” 

John glances at him with an unreadable look. Todd frowns. “That won’t do,” he says. “There must be something. What about the fact that he married someone else and had a child with her? What happened there? Surely you have some feelings about that.” 

Sherlock feels acutely uncomfortable. He opens his mouth, looking down at his hands, but doesn’t know what to say. He feels John’s eyes on him, and his concern, and then John clears his throat. 

“This, er, might be a bit – too much to get into here,” he says, his voice strained. “It’s just – we’ve never actually discussed this on our own yet and I just think it might be better if we saved it for our session with Margaret.” 

Todd sounds a little surprised. “Oh,” he says. “Well. Yes, absolutely, then! Okay, let’s try another angle: do the two of you fight about money at all?” 

“No,” Sherlock says, a little too tightly. He doesn’t want to talk about this, either. 

John sighs and crosses his legs the other way. 

Todd looks keenly at John. “What was that?” he asks. “Would you agree, John?” 

“We don’t fight about it, because he just pays for everything,” John says, picking at the fabric of the armrest. 

“It’s easier that way,” Sherlock says, not looking at John. “I have money. I don’t care about it. I just – don’t want it to be an issue. I don’t want him to have to worry about it.”

“And yet, that’s a little controlling,” Todd points out. “It’s very generous, but not allowing the other person to contribute can be a little stifling at the same time.” 

“We always have to do everything his way,” John says, and he’s definitely scowling now. 

Sherlock looks at him, a spark of anger kindling in his chest. “What do we do ‘my way’?” he asks, trying to control how incredulous he feels. “Outside of the work?” 

“Everything,” John repeats, not meeting his gaze. He both looks and sounds uncomfortable. 

“Perhaps you could be a little more specific,” Todd suggests. 

“Yes, by all means, be a little more specific,” Sherlock repeats hotly. “Because as I see it, I’ve done nothing but try to make you happy since I came back!” 

Now John looks at him, and his eyes are blazing. “You’ve been trying to make me happy?” he repeats, his voice as incredulous as Sherlock’s. “By doing _what_?” 

Sherlock is aware that everyone else in the room has grown uncomfortable. “What about helping plan your wedding?” he bites out, and hears someone, possibly Scott, inhale sharply. “What about – when I got shot?” He deliberately leaves Mary’s name out of this, but only with an effort. “I didn’t turn the shooter in for your sake, not – theirs. What about Magnussen?” 

All the fire seems to go out of John’s eyes. He glances into Sherlock’s at last. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. He inhales and says, “No, okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re right. And – since Rosie, too – I meant that, yesterday. I’m out of line. I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock is surprised by this. He’s never witnessed John back down like this before. “Okay,” he says uncertainly. He doesn’t know what else to say. He’s still angry – angrier than he realised he was, below the surface, and he feels unsettled by it. Perhaps agreeing to take this case was a bad idea. 

John turns to Todd. “It’s true that Sherlock’s been supporting me entirely for the past eight or nine months already,” he says. “I – I haven’t been working since my first my wife, then my daughter died, and Sherlock hasn’t pushed me to start again. It’s completely out of line for me to say anything churlish about it. I take it back.” 

Todd gazes at him, his face compassionate. “It’s what we do for the people we love, when we can afford to do so,” he agrees. “That doesn’t change the fact that you may feel a bit… well, emasculated is too strong a word, and that’s an old-fashioned notion, anyway. But money can feel like power. Can _be_ power, very easily.” 

“I don’t want to lord it over John,” Sherlock says, frowning. “I just want it to make things less complicated.” 

“I realise that,” Todd assures him. “And I suspect that John does, too. And yet, money can complicate things whether or not we want it to.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Sherlock asks, more belligerently than he should. “Just toss him out? I’m not going to do that! It’s not even my money; it’s a trust fund and I don’t think twice about it. It’s all I _have_ to make his life any easier.” 

This last slips out without his meaning to say it, and he immediately hears how desperate it makes him sound. John looks at him, his lips parting a little. “That’s not true,” he says, his voice low. “You’ve – given me so much more than that. And I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, both financially and otherwise. If you don’t mind paying for things, then I’ll shut up about it. I mean it.” 

Todd seems to like this. “Sherlock?” he prompts gently. 

Sherlock nods. “I don’t want it to make you feel obligated, or – diminished,” he says awkwardly. “I just want it to free you to do – whatever you feel you need to do.” 

John swallows hard and nods. “Yeah,” he says, his voice coming out in a half-whisper. “Okay. Thanks.” 

Todd smiles at them, then moves on to Doug and Brad. 

It takes Sherlock fifteen minutes before his heart rate has settled to its normal pace again, and he suspects that John is feeling similarly unsettled. That exchange came too close to raw nerves. Yet he also senses that John has relaxed by the time Todd brings the session to a close. He’s good, Sherlock thinks, drawing things out of people and occasionally inviting someone else to make a comment here or there if something pertains to their situation.

Or so he thinks until Todd says, “All right, to finish off today’s meeting, I’m just going to invite you each to kiss your partner. It doesn’t have to be anything drawn-out or involved, but it’s a way of putting a physical seal on your commitment to work things out. We men are very physical creatures; to love is to touch, and it’s important that it happens here in this room, where we’ve had these particular discussions. Who wants to lead off? Justin and Thom, perhaps?” 

They smile at each other and kiss easily, visibly using tongue, Sherlock notes. He feels intensely uncomfortable, his neck growing hot. John will hate this, being forced to actually kiss him in front of all these people! Will he find a way to avoid it? Expect Sherlock to? He squirms internally. 

Brad and Doug hesitate when it’s their turn. “We’re, er, not that big on kissing,” Brad says gruffly. “Especially not in public.” 

“Oh, come on,” Doug mutters. “Just get it over with.” He leans forward and pecks Brad on the lips. Brad coughs after and avoids everyone’s eyes. 

“Andrew and Avi,” Todd says. They kiss without issue for a long moment, long enough that Sherlock begins to feel envious of the obviousness of what they must feel for each other. 

They’re next. Todd says their names and John looks at him and sort of shrugs. Sherlock holds his breath and closes his eyes, and John kisses him very briefly on the lips, moving away again before Sherlock has opened his eyes. He didn’t kiss back, he thinks belatedly, with dismay. He just sat there like a lump and let John kiss him. He feels himself flush, embarrassed by his own ineptitude. He’s just proven to John that he doesn’t even know how to kiss like a proper grown man. He wants to disappear into the loveseat cushions. He doesn’t even notice the last couple’s exchange, and tunes out Todd dismissing them for the break before lunch. 

“Hey. You coming?” John asks, and Sherlock opens his eyes, not realising he’d closed them again. John’s already on his feet, stretching. He seems to be behaving as though nothing is any different. 

It takes Sherlock a moment to get his words organised in his mouth. “Yes,” he says briefly. “You go ahead. I’m just going to have a quick look around. For the case,” he says, trying to make it sound legitimate and not just as though he’s avoiding being alone with John now. 

If John is disappointed, he doesn’t show it. “All right,” he says, and sets off in the direction of the north guest wing. 

Sherlock gets to his feet. Todd is gone, the doors of the common room open. He spends a bit of time casually checking the offices, seeing who’s in them, nonchalantly trying door knobs for those which are unoccupied, and generally trying to get a handle on his scattered thoughts. He knows he needs to focus, but he can still feel John’s lips on his. 

“Can I help you?” 

Sherlock spins around, straightening up with a false smile pasted into place. “Hello!” he says automatically. His interrupter is a young man, around twenty-nine or so, and strikingly attractive. He’s about the same height as Sherlock, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and into a pair of piercingly blue eyes. His face is thin and whimsical, a hint of mystery about his mouth. Sherlock recognises the face from the meet-and-greet but can’t put a name or position to it. He invents something rapidly. “I thought I left something in the dining room at breakfast but I didn’t want to interrupt the group in there. Is it accessible by this corridor?” 

The other surveys him, a faint smile still hovering about his mouth. It’s slightly disconcerting. He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We’re adjacent to the dining room but you’ve got to go in by the main doors. The only other access point is through the back doors of the kitchen. What did you lose? I’ll have a look for you before lunch, if you like.” 

“My phone charger,” Sherlock says, off the top of his head. “White cord. With the electrical block.” 

“I didn’t see one, but I’ll check,” the other says smoothly without so much as a flicker of an eyelash. 

Sherlock stalls. “It might be in my room,” he says, feigning awkwardness. He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s just – I just came from a circle meeting, and things with my partner are… I just wanted to clear my head, so I thought I’d check here first.” 

The younger man comes closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “Ah,” he says, with a note of understanding. “Yes. The second circle meeting can be difficult that way, for a lot of our guests. It was your second, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, eyeing the other. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name yesterday. I’m Sh – ”

“Sherlock Holmes, yes. I know.” The dark-haired youth studies him, that same, faint smile playing about his lips. Sherlock rather wonders if he’s been had. “I’m Paul,” his companion says, holding out a hand. “Kyle’s assistant at the front desk. And in the back offices as well.” 

Sherlock shakes his hand, wondering if he was meant to understand a vague entendre with the reference to _back offices_. “Nice to meet you,” he says, endeavouring not to sound stiff. “If you see my cord, that would be great. I can just look myself at lunch time.” 

“No problem at all,” Paul says. He steps closer. “And if things continue to be tense between you and Doctor Watson… I’m always around if you need someone to talk to.” 

He’s too close, his eyes on Sherlock’s mouth, then flicking almost insolently up to his eyes – or is he imagining it? Sherlock wills himself not to frown. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. I just needed a bit of space.” 

“Of course,” Paul murmurs. “Well. It was nice to run into you. See you around.” 

There’s another skate of his light blue eyes, almost challenging, and Sherlock feels discomfited by it. He brushes past Paul and gets out of the corridor, feeling the other’s eyes on his back as he goes. Awkward or not, he suddenly very much wants to be wherever John is, behind closed doors. 

*** 

Sherlock surreptitiously tightens the belt of his complimentary terry towel robe and tries not to feel ridiculous. Or awkward. John notices anyway. 

“Relax,” he says, keeping his voice low. “It’s going to be fine.” 

Sherlock is wearing a pair of briefs, black microfiber, but is still hesitant to cross his legs the other way lest he flash John. “I just don’t know what to expect,” he says, and hears how tense he sounds. 

John keeps his voice reasonable. “I know that makes you uncomfortable, but you might like this. They’re going to rub oil on your skin and massage your muscles. Nothing more, nothing less. And I’ll be there. You won’t be on your own with a stranger or something.” 

Sherlock told him about the strange encounter with Paul-the-assistant before lunch. “I still feel odd about that,” he mutters. “There was something off about him.” 

“So you said,” John says, looking at him curiously. “Was it just because he was flirting with you, do you think?” 

Sherlock hadn’t said that, hadn’t described it that way, yet John still cottoned on to this. “Possibly.” The door to the waiting area opens and two men come in. “Ah,” he says, aside to John. “Here we go.” 

They come over. They’re both muscular and tanned, in their late thirties. They introduce themselves as Alex and Roberto and invite Sherlock and John into their room. Sherlock notices the scented oils burning and thinks of the blurb he read about their aromatherapy treatments. His brain sorts out the various components of the oil as the proceedings are explained to them. They will receive a forty-five minute massage, then be left on their own to enjoy a two-person jacuzzi in the adjoining room for as long as they want afterward, as they sip special mineral waters to relieve their muscles of toxins. It sounds like mystical rot, but also rather pleasant, Sherlock concedes, dutifully climbing onto the massage table assigned to him and shedding his robe after they’ve been left alone to do so. There’s an odd contraption at the end of the table, a round thing with a hole in the centre. He props himself up on his elbows and looks at it. “Er,” he says, and John comes to his rescue. 

“It’s a pillow, sort of,” John says. “A face rest, if you will. Put your face into the hole.” 

Sherlock looks at him and they both start to laugh, the laugh coming out Sherlock’s nose before he can help it, and after that it’s too late to contain it. “Mature, John,” he snickers, putting his face down as prescribed. “Very mature.” 

“Well, you tell me how else to describe it!” John gets control of his laughter at last, wiping his eyes. 

“I feel ridiculous,” Sherlock says, staring at the carpeting beneath his face, his voice muffled. 

“Shut it, you. Just relax and enjoy this.” 

“I would, but my face is in a hole,” Sherlock says, and that sets John giggling again, to his private satisfaction. The awkwardness eases considerably. 

Their masseurs come back in and they both get a grip on themselves. “All right, Sherlock,” one of them says, apparently assuming he’ll be able to recognise who it is by his voice alone. He can’t. (It doesn’t matter.) “Let’s get started.” The masseur asks a question or two, his voice low and soothing, and John is undergoing the same conversation on the other massage table. There is music playing, trance-like and punctured with bird calls and waterfalls and so forth. Sherlock exhales and tries to relax as his mystery masseur starts massaging his back. 

It’s odd at first, but it also feels good – better than he was prepared for, in fact. The man is clearly a trained professional and seems to know instinctively how much pressure to apply. No one is speaking. The only sounds are the music, the occasional rustlings of fabric as the two masseurs move around the tables, and the sounds of four hands working over flesh. More oil is rubbed into his skin and Sherlock thinks that he is going to be absolutely covered in oil by the time this is finished. Then he remembers the hot tub and relaxes again. Surely the mineral salts in the water will get most of the oil off. No one has ever touched him like this and he honestly doesn’t know how to feel about it. It’s just a job. Does the masseur feel anything, touching him? Probably not. It’s just a job. This thought makes it easier to let go and enjoy the sensations of it. Sherlock lets his thoughts drift, every nerve aware of the hands on his skin, his muscles almost groaning their release. 

Alex or Roberto, whichever one it is, works his way down Sherlock’s back, tucking the sheet into the waistband of his underwear, which get gently tugged down just enough to expose the upper curves of his arse. John could see this, Sherlock thinks. But he’s probably dutifully keeping his face down. The masseur moves down to his feet and deftly massages his arches and ankles and this feels very good. He breathes and attempts to stop thinking, just let himself enjoy this. Next it’s his calf muscles, then his knees and thighs. When the masseur lifts the sheet off his arse, Sherlock thinks momentarily of protesting, then firmly tells himself to shut up and just let the man do his job. Ten fingers settle into the meat of his arse and he nearly gasps. It feels good – _really_ good, and to his internal discomfort, he feels his genitals stir in response, his penis stiffening. He read about this eventuality and frankly hoped that his morning ministrations in the shower would prevent a second wave of arousal in the same day. Apparently he was mistaken. 

He has to keep himself from drooling as the masseur grips and squeezes his cheeks, going until Sherlock’s arse feels like tenderised meat. He returns his attentions to Sherlock’s back now, digging a little deeper this time, and somehow this is arousing now, too, particularly the slight edge of pain that comes with it. He has to keep his hips still to fight the urge to rub himself against the mat of the massage table. Alex-or-Roberto comes to stand at the head of the table now and slides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp, and this is even worse. He can hear his own breathing, amplified by the face holder, and it’s shaking. He can hear John’s, too, for that matter, and now that he’s aware of his own state, he deduces within seconds that John is just as aroused as he is. The thought makes him feel terribly jealous, that some other male is getting to touch John like this, provoke this physical response in him. The masseur is tugging at his hair and each tug seems to go directly to his penis. 

The masseur returns to his arse now, squeezing it once or twice as though for good measure. His hands run up and down Sherlock’s back, soothing. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice low and a bit amused. “That’s a completely normal response. We not only expect it, we encourage it.” 

John’s masseur echoes this, adding, “It’s a couple’s massage, after all. You can stay in the room as long as you like, and we encourage you to take care of each other. It’s our job to work you up, but finishing off should be your partner’s job.” 

Sherlock’s masseur pats him on the back. “Take all the time you want,” he says. “The hot tub is just in the adjoining room, when you’re ready. There’s also a loo just through the other door, if you need, and the massage oil is just here.” 

Sherlock manages to thank him through the arousal clouding his voice, and the two men leave. 

“Jesus,” John groans, once they’re gone. “This is ridiculous!” He lifts his face, which is red possibly both from having been lying face down as well as from embarrassment. 

Sherlock glances at him and agrees, but he’s almost too aroused to care at the moment. “We can just – there’s a bathroom, he said – ”

John looks at him, incredulous. “What – do _you_ need to – ” He stops. 

Sherlock feels himself flushing, both embarrassed and a bit angry. “I’m human,” he says stiffly, though his penis is even stiffer at the moment. “I have the same – impulses as anyone else. Did you think I was a robot or something?” 

John looks contrite. “Sorry,” he says, though he’s breathing heavily. “Well – do you want the loo, then, or – never mind, I’m closer. I can – ” He gets himself carefully off the far side of the massage table, shielding himself from Sherlock’s view, then takes several large strides toward the loo and shuts the door firmly behind him. 

Sherlock waits for the door to close, then reaches immediately for the massage oil and turns onto his side, shamefully relieved to be allowed to touch himself at last. He lies exactly where he is, his fist flying along his erection within his underwear, curled in on himself and tugging as hard as he can. He’s breathing hard, hard enough that John can probably hear him in the bathroom, and struggles to keep quiet. He listens hard for John, and there it is – he can hear John’s breath huffing, the sound of his hand moving, and that’s – Sherlock doubles over and comes, hard enough that it hits the wall. His body spurts again and he exhales heavily, just barely vocal. He lies still, panting and trying to stifle it, and watches his ejaculate slide down the wall. All is quiet in the bathroom now, too. 

When he can move, he gets up, stretches deeply, and looks around. There are towels stacked just outside the chamber containing the hot tub for their use. He steps out of his underwear and wraps a towel around his waist, then finds a small one and attempts to mop his mess from the wall. John knocks from inside the bathroom, which should be comical, but isn’t. “You can come out,” Sherlock says, aware of the other possible meaning and hoping that John won’t get his hackles up about it. 

The door opens and John pokes his head out. “You, er, good?” he asks awkwardly. 

Sherlock nods. “Fine. Yes.” He points. “There are towels here.” He moves toward the adjoining room, then says, “I suppose we’re meant to do this part nude…” 

“So it would seem,” John agrees. “Go ahead. I’ll, er, be right there.” 

Sherlock goes into the small room adjoining, glances back to where John is fastening a towel around himself and pointedly looking away, then sheds his towel and climbs quickly into the hot tub. “All right,” he says, settling himself into the hot mineral bath. The water is just the right temperature and feels fantastic, or perhaps he’s just feeling sated from both the massage and what followed. 

John comes in. “How’s the water?” he asks, trying to mask his awkwardness. 

“It’s lovely,” Sherlock says, his eyes closed. “I’m not looking. You can come in.” 

“All right.” John clambers in, then says, “Okay,” and Sherlock opens his eyes again. 

They’re sitting across from each other, the water at mid-chest level. The tub is small enough that their legs or feet touch every time one of them moves, but it’s all right. Sherlock wonders in passing how many oily post-massage sexual encounters have taken place in this tub, then decides not to think about it. Perhaps everyone gets that part taken care of immediately after and this part is just for relaxing. Perhaps some couples sit in each other’s arms and kiss during this part. He can imagine that vividly, and a pang of yearning twangs in his chest. It would be nice to just push himself across the tub to where John is sitting and pull his floating body into his arms, find his mouth… He clears his throat. “The, er, mineral water is just over your shoulder,” he says. “We’re supposed to drink at least two glasses apiece.” 

John twists around and sees the pitcher, perched on a bamboo tray with two glasses. There are leaves and berries floating in the water. John turns onto his knees, which exposes his back almost to his arse and he pours them each a glass, then leans forward and gives one to Sherlock. “There you are,” he says, and settles back against his jet. 

Sherlock thanks him and sips. “This isn’t half bad,” he allows. 

John takes a long drink of water, his head tipping back, and Sherlock can’t take his eyes from his throat. John sets his glass down, then says, “Did you like the massage, then?” 

Sherlock is rueful. “A little too much, evidently,” he says, and John laughs, but nicely. 

“Don’t worry about that. It happens to everyone,” he assures Sherlock. 

“I don’t even know which one of them was massaging me,” Sherlock says. 

John snorts out a laugh. “Me neither! I lost track of them when they left the room.” 

“Precisely. And when they came back, I had my face in the hole.” Sherlock delivers this with a straight face and John guffaws with laughter. 

“You and your hole,” he says, clearly intending it to come out as filthy as it sounds. “Same, though. Not the first clue. It’s probably fine.” He closes his eyes and sinks a little further into the water. “I wish this was wine,” he says, swirling the water in his glass. 

Sherlock lets himself relax a little more, too. Somehow it doesn’t feel that odd, being naked this close to John. “We can order a bottle with dinner,” he says. 

“Mmm. Yes. Good idea. Which of the options did you choose?” John’s eyes are still closed. 

Sherlock thinks for a moment, trying to remember what tonight’s options were. “The linguine alfredo with lobster, I think. You?” 

“The same. Perfect. We can get a white, then.” 

Sherlock watches him and thinks that this is good, despite the acute embarrassment just minutes ago. It’s dulling the edges of the anger that surfaced this morning at the circle meeting. He looks at John’s chest and wants to swim over and put his lips to it, again. Another dangerous urge. 

John’s eyes open. “What?” he asks, sounding slightly defensive. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock makes himself sound casual and takes another sip of his water. 

“You were looking at me,” John says, but it’s not all that accusatory. 

Sherlock shrugs. “Not really. I was just thinking.” 

There’s a small pause. “What about?” John asks. 

Sherlock’s breath almost catches. Is there something there, carefully hidden behind John’s deliberately casual tone? Better safe than sorry, he tells himself. “The reason why we’re here,” he says, not wanting to say the word _case_ just in case someone is listening in. 

“Ah.” John finishes his water and turns to refill his glass. “We should probably discuss that later, I guess. For now I’m very content to get the most out of this possible.” 

Sherlock smiles now. “Good plan,” he approves, and John actually smiles back. Sherlock’s heart attempts to do something anatomically impossible and he looks away, sipping his water again and trying desperately to mask what he’s really thinking. 

*** 

“I can’t believe we let ourselves get talked into doing this,” John grouses, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. 

Sherlock eyes him under the guise of doing it as a joke, but all he says is, “Well, it’s a good way to observe the subtler dynamics of whatever’s going on here. I mean, so far we haven’t even seen anything suspicious.” 

“It’s also only the second day,” John reminds him. His eyes travel dubiously over Sherlock’s torso. “They’re supposed to be so tight you can’t breathe?” 

“I think that’s the idea, yes,” Sherlock says. They have their terry towel robes on and were told to come wearing white briefs and nothing else, that t-shirts would be distributed upon arrival. They were both asked their sizes, then given a size smaller than what they said. Sherlock can feel his nipples pressing into the flimsy cotton as it attempts to suffocate his torso. 

“I think these things are really more for the Justin/Thoms of this group,” John grumbles, holding his robe around himself. “I’ve never felt older or less fit.” 

Sherlock bites back a comment about how John looked perfectly fit to him in the hot tub that afternoon. He lost the few pounds he’d gained after the wedding. Instead, he says evenly, “We’re meant to look like we’re really here to take part in the activities and the rest of that. It would look suspicious if we didn’t come. It’s not like there’s anything else to do here at night.” 

“Besides the obvious,” John says, not looking at him. 

It takes Sherlock a moment to realise that he means sex, and the realisation hits him somewhere around the pelvis, leaving him temporarily unable to form words. He recovers. “True, but the hiking trails are closed at night,” he reminds John, and John snickers. 

“Right,” he says, shooting Sherlock a sideways grin. “So how does this thing work?” 

Justin and Thom were the ones who came around to their table during dessert and all but bullied them into signing up for the wet t-shirt contest. “It’ll be fun,” Justin promised.

“And we don’t want to be the only ones doing it,” Thom added. “Come and keep us company!” 

John had eyed them dubiously. “And compete against the two of you disgustingly young, fit arseholes? Not much chance of that!” 

“Come on,” Thom cajoled. “It’s just for fun! There are prizes, too!” 

John patted his stomach. “Is there one for biggest gut?” he’d asked dryly. “If so, I’d have ordered double dessert.” 

“Oh, cut it out with the false modesty,” Justin had said, waving him off. “I bet Sherlock could tell us a thing or two about what’s under those checked shirts of yours.” 

John’s mouth had pursed at that, almost looking pleased, and he’d looked over at Sherlock. “What do you think?” he’d asked, still sounding dubious. 

Sherlock had swallowed the spoonful of chocolate mousse he’d been eating and said, “It’s up to you,” as neutrally as he could muster it. 

So here they are, and Sherlock feels as ridiculous as John. He sees Brad and Doug standing against the back wall, mugs of beer in their hands. They’re not attired for the contest and, given their builds, Sherlock privately decides this is wise. Still, they’re likeable sorts. “Hello,” he says. John appears beside him and nods at them, too. 

“Not competing?” he asks, and Brad shakes his head. 

“Nah. The world can live without my beer belly in a wet t-shirt,” he says affably. “We’re just here for the scenery, if you take my drift.” 

“Right.” John’s smile is a little forced and Sherlock wonders if he’s still stoically thinking of himself as completely heterosexual. He’s always held his own opinion of _that_ , not that it matters much if John himself won’t acknowledge it. 

“We did say we were looking to liven things up again,” Doug says, grinning. “So do put on a good show, won’t you? Could make our year.” 

Sherlock smiles reluctantly, but is spared having to respond when he hears their names. John tugs him over by the sleeve. “Come on,” he says. 

The first five contestants are already on the stage, four men from other groups and Scott. A firefighting-style hose has been wheeled out and when the whistle blows, the contestants are drenched with warm water, soaked from head to toe. The stage lights ensure that extremely little is left to the imagination and Sherlock is suddenly acutely aware that everyone in the room is therefore about to see his genitals. He suppresses the urge to tug his t-shirt down further. It’s just transport, he reminds himself, and this helps a little. 

Kyle is MC-ing. A panel of judges has been assembled of the other support staff. The contestants are told to flex their arms, then turn in a full circle, to the whistles and catcalls of the people watching. It’s good-natured, though, people clapping and laughing. “Next round!” Kyle calls out. “Mark M, Thom H, Amine S, Jack P, and John W!” 

“Shit, that’s me,” John says, shrugging out of his robe and giving it to Sherlock. “Hold this, would you?” He slips through the crowd and joins the others on the stage, and Sherlock edges forward for a better view, not wanting to stand right in the front and centre, but keeping to the second row or thereabouts. 

The hose fires off another round, plastering the contestants’ clothing to their bodies and Sherlock’s eyes are riveted to John and John alone. The t-shirt clings to his nipples and pecs and abdominal muscles, and Sherlock has the chance to note that even soft, John’s package is substantial. His mouth fills with saliva and he swallows, wishing he could see it aroused. While he feels a bit ashamed for looking, he simultaneously loves the fact that this is giving him a chance to finally see John this way. And yet, he also hates that all of these other people are seeing him, too. They all think that he gets this all of the time – how sad if they should find out that it’s Sherlock’s first time seeing this much of the man he lives with, too. 

John feigns his way through his discomfort well, posing and flexing when told, running his hands down over his chest and turning slowly, his hips undulating a little as he does his circle. Perhaps the massage loosened him up, Sherlock thinks, half-critical and half-admiring. And a little too aroused, too. He forces his thoughts into less stimulating areas and slowly feels his body calm. 

John finds him after the judges dismiss his group, taking the robe Sherlock is holding out to him. “That wasn’t as bad as I thought,” he admits. 

A tall man in his late thirties slides by them. “Nice,” he says to John, very admiringly. “Very nice, indeed.” 

Another voice adds its agreement, and John’s chest swells almost visibly. “Thanks,” he says, and Sherlock feels pleased for him – as well as tremendously possessive. 

He listens, wondering if he’ll be called next, but he isn’t. Jeremy’s in the next group, however, and he gets the most cat-calls by far. He seems to bask in the attention and puts on more of a show than the others. Even without that, he’s an extremely attractive man, Sherlock admits to himself. His body is magazine-worthy, no Photoshop needed. No wonder they have infidelity issues, he thinks cryptically. 

“Would you look at that,” Justin says, appearing beside Sherlock, but speaking to both of them. “Now that is a serious piece of arse. Damn!” 

“I’ll say,” Thom adds, wrapped in his robe. “Poor Scott. No wonder.” 

Justin leans in, keeping his voice down. “Hey. Word has it that there’s going to be a circle jerk in the steam room at midnight. Just in case you guys are up for that. It’s very hush-hush, though, obviously not an officially-sanctioned activity, so do be discreet about it.” 

Sherlock feels his eyebrows lift. “Past our bedtime, I should think,” he says, very dryly. “But thank you.” 

John clears his throat. “Indeed,” he seconds, and Justin shrugs. 

“Suit yourselves. We might go. Unless Thom wants to go on being a wet blanket about it.” 

“Lifestyle transition,” Thom says pointedly. “We’re supposed to be moving away from this stuff, remember?” 

Kyle calls the next group of names, including Sherlock’s. “That’s me,” he says unnecessarily, and John helps him out of his robe. “Thanks,” he says, and John smiles. 

“Go do your thing,” he says. 

Sherlock has no idea what his thing is meant to be, but walks gamely onto the stage, feeling ridiculous. He’s right in the middle of the line-up. The water is a shock despite being warm, but it doesn’t get his hair, to his private satisfaction. The t-shirt clings warmly to his stomach and chest and he tries gamely not to even think of what his briefs are doing, or exposing. There seems to be a lot of noise from the spectators, but he doesn’t know who it’s for. He feels the most ridiculous when Kyle shouts at them to flex their arms, doing it stiffly and trying to look as though he feels just fine. Finally it’s the circle, and then he’s permitted to step down and out of the stage lights. John is waiting close by, slipping the robe back onto him before Sherlock can even reach for it. 

“Good job,” he says briskly. “They liked you.” 

“Did they?” Sherlock echoes. He doesn’t know what to say to this. “Oh.” 

John opens his mouth to speak, but then Paul materialises out of the crowd. “Hello again,” he says smoothly, ignoring John completely. 

“Hello,” Sherlock says, his spine stiffening a little. 

Paul’s oddly light eyes slide down to Sherlock’s torso, not making any effort to be subtle about it. “You were fantastic,” he says. “Pity to hide it away again so soon.” 

Sherlock has no idea whether Paul’s “it” is a reference to his body in general, or specifically to his genitalia, but it makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what to say. 

Paul doesn’t seem to mind. “I imagine you’ve heard about the steam room by now,” he says, keeping his voice down despite the loud music thumping out of one of the speakers nearby. His disconcerting gaze flicks over to John. “You’re both welcome, of course. After that little display… _very_ welcome, Doctor Watson.” 

John’s stance has gone slightly defensive, though perhaps that’s only perceptible to Sherlock. “You can call me John,” he says, his tone a little forced. “I’m here for strictly personal reasons, after all.” 

Paul’s slim, dark brows lift. “Of course,” he says. “In that case: I expect to see you both a little later.” He delivers this like a challenge, then is gone, disappearing back into the crowd. 

John looks at Sherlock, but now is not the time or place to discuss this. The round five contestants are just coming off the stage, chattering and looking around for their towels or robes. Kyle calls out the final round, which includes both Justin and Andrew. Avi, Sherlock notes, is there but fully clothed, watching from the front row, smiling at Andrew. 

They wait for the judging. To no one’s surprise, Jeremy wins, with Justin coming in third and Thom fourth. To both Sherlock and John’s surprise, they each receive an honourable mention, which proves to be a second bottle of champagne and a box of fancy chocolates each. Pleased by this, they take themselves back to the north guest wing. 

“We’re going to be swimming in champagne,” John points out. “We haven’t even opened that bottle in the fridge.” 

“Wait until we solve the case,” Sherlock says. “Then we’ll deserve it.” 

“Sure.” John looks down. “I’m dripping on the floor, and so are you. I’m going to take a shower, but I’ll be quick, if you want to use it, too.” 

“I think I will. Thank you.” Sherlock waits for John to shut himself in the bathroom, then realises that he can’t sit on anything without making it wet, so he goes to the window to look outside. By deliberate design, he imagines, the guest rooms look out on nature only; no part of the facility buildings are in view. From the main building at the front, the breezeways lead outward at an angle, then the guest wings run straight back toward the back building. Their view is of the foot of the hills and a row of pines, though Sherlock has to press his face to the glass to see beyond his own reflection. He opens the window for a moment, despite the climate control in the room, and listens. Outside, there is nothing to be heard, save the occasional call of a nocturnal bird, and the soughing of the wind in the trees. It’s very peaceful. He closes the window and pulls the curtains closed again. 

The shower turns off and a few minutes later, John opens the bathroom door. “It’s all yours,” he says. “I’ll brush my teeth after. You must be getting cold in those wet things.” 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and takes a fresh pair of boxer briefs and last night’s t-shirt with him into the bathroom. 

Half an hour later, John shuts his laptop and reaches for the next day’s card. “Neither of us has filled this out yet,” he says. “What do you want for breakfast?” 

“Read me the options,” Sherlock requests, and John does. Sherlock chooses the Norwegian waffles with raspberries and crème anglaise and John chooses an omelette with ham, brie, and asparagus. They repeat the process for lunch and dinner. 

“That should do it,” John says. “Do we have any special requests?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Here,” he says, holding out his hand for it. “I’ll put it out on the door.” 

John gives him the card. “Bedtime for me, I think.” 

It’s nearly one now, and Sherlock agrees. He affixes the card to the front of the door, then switches out the lights and gets into bed beside John. It’s definitely less awkward tonight than it was last night, he thinks. The massage and hot tub experience has definitely made their enforced intimacy easier. “Good night,” he says, on his side with his back to John. 

John hesitates. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock inclines his head back over his shoulder a little. “Yes?” 

“All that, this morning… you really don’t mind me just sponging off you like this?” John asks. He sounds almost wistful. “To be honest, I’ve been feeling like a cad about it.” 

“I’ve never minded in the slightest,” Sherlock says firmly. “It’s a non-issue for me. I meant it when I said that I just want it to make things easier for you. It… hasn’t been an easy time and this is one thing I can do.” He pauses, then adds, “I also meant it when I said that I’m glad you’re there.” 

“Yeah?” There’s a longish pause as John clearly debates internally. Finally he says, “I’m glad I’m there, too.” 

Sherlock blinks, glad that John can’t see his face. “Okay. Good. Thank you,” he says, perhaps a bit stiffly, but that seems to satisfy John. 

“Good night,” he says, and that’s the end of their conversation for the day. 

*** 

Sherlock wakes around seven and finds himself turned toward John again, one arm draped across his middle. John on his back, breathing deeply and slowly, fast asleep, but his face is turned toward Sherlock’s, inches away. Sherlock blinks and stirs, realising where he is and what he’s doing, working moisture into his dry mouth. He’s touching John in multiple places, his knees and shins pressed into John’s thighs, his torso touching John’s arm. He should move away. He withdraws his arm carefully and pulls it into his chest, tucking his hand under his chin. He’s still thinking about turning onto his other side, but John is warm and it’s so difficult to move; he’s so tired… he falls asleep again within seconds. 

When the alarm rings, John wakes with a start, and Sherlock opens his eyes. He didn’t move, he thinks belatedly. He meant to, but it never happened. For a moment John stares at him, then turns onto his other side, away from Sherlock. “You can shower first if you want,” is all he says, his words blurred by sleep. 

“Okay.” Sherlock gets out of the bed and makes for the bathroom with his dignity more or less intact, glad that John won’t see the specific effects of their proximity on his body again. That’s what showers are for, after all. 

John makes coffee again, and they discuss the day’s therapy-intensive schedule. Sherlock feels apprehensive about it, given what happened at yesterday’s circle meeting, but John doesn’t seem worried. “It’ll be fine,” he says, draining his cup. He touches his face, checking his shaving job. “Ready to go?” 

Sherlock finishes his own coffee and sets the cup down. “I am now.” Today he’s wearing his aubergine shirt, which John has commented on before. John is wearing a finely-knit black jersey jumper that Sherlock gave him for his last birthday, and Sherlock wonders if he remembers that, that it was him who gave it to him. The dark colour somehow enhances the cut of John’s jaw and brings out his eyes, and the fabric clings just enough to show his shape. Sherlock feels it somehow portentous that John not only brought it along, but chose to wear it today. Perhaps it will bode well for their sessions ahead. 

There are slightly fewer people at breakfast than there were yesterday. John offers the theory that perhaps the men who went to the steam room are having a lie-in this morning. They’re among the first to arrive and choose an empty table. Scott comes in soon after, alone, and asks if he can join them. John pulls out the chair next to him. 

“Where’s Jeremy?” he asks. “Sleeping off the victory lap?” 

Scott’s face darkens, but before he can respond, a server comes with all three of their meals, setting down waffles in front of Scott and Sherlock and then John’s omelette with potatoes risolées. There’s a pot of tea on the table and Sherlock fills all three of their cups. Scott pulls his cup toward himself and looks down into it, ignoring his breakfast. “He… didn’t come back to our room last night,” he says, very quietly. 

John looks at Sherlock and Sherlock sees that they’re thinking the same thing. He doesn’t often feel empathy, but now he does. “Did he go to the steam room?” he asks, keeping his voice down. 

Scott nods. “He wanted me to come, too. He actually pleaded with me to, but I said I didn’t want to. I said I was here to be with him. But you saw how it was, at the contest; there were men all over him. He’s so attractive, you’d never think it, but he’s rather insecure, so it affects him a lot, being fawned over like that. I finally told him he could go, if he wanted. At least he put up a bit of an argument.” He gives a bitter laugh. 

John glances at Sherlock again, then says, “And you think he… stayed in someone else’s room after?” 

Scott shrugs. “Not many other options, are there?” 

“That’s rough,” John says sympathetically. “I’m sorry.” 

Scott sighs. “The thing is, you know he’s done this before. I mean, we’re in the same group. You know it’s been an issue. But I never thought he’d do this to me while we’re _here_ , working on our relationship. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. This time it might really be the end for me, and I just can’t even imagine what the future will look like.” 

“Of course not,” Sherlock says, his voice a bit shorter than he meant. He’s thinking of those months preparing for John’s wedding, his mind a blank, unable to ponder the concept of his life without John at Baker Street, even though it was already happening. “At this point, you can’t possibly know.”

He starts cutting into his waffles and avoids John’s eyes, which he can nonetheless feel. John turns back to Scott. “Don’t give up just yet,” he says. “You never know what can happen. All kinds of things are possible when you really love each other. I believe that.” 

Sherlock thinks briefly of John’s disastrous marriage, but saves his cryptic comments. Surely he’s not suggesting that there was real love involved there. Not on either side. Not based on what he said, in the early days after he moved back in. 

Scott doesn’t seem to hear this. He looks down at his breakfast. “I don’t even really like raspberries,” he says. “Jeremy does.” He chokes up and John reaches over and pats him on the shoulder. “I can’t eat this,” Scott says miserably. 

“Why don’t you go back to your room,” John suggests, his voice gentle and doctor-ish. “We’ll cover for you. Tell them you’ve got a flu bug or something.” 

Scott sits there for a moment, then nods. He gets up abruptly and leaves without another word. 

John glances back, then turns to Sherlock when Scott is gone. “Poor guy,” he says quietly. 

Sherlock nods. Doug and Brad come in then and sit down on the other side of the circular table. They’re served steak and eggs in Brad’s case and an omelette in Doug’s, along with mugs of coffee, which must have been a particular request, Sherlock thinks. He tunes out the group conversation and begins to think uneasily of today’s circle meeting. He eats absentmindedly and nods when John says he’s going back to the room to use the loo and that he’ll be back in time for the meeting. Sherlock decides to go outside and get a breath of air before sitting through another two-hour group therapy session for a relationship he only wishes he had on the subject of something which has never happened and likely will never happen. 

The sun is shining and birds are singing in the clear, fresh air. Beyond the bird calls, there is a deep, rich silence, a sense of immense space in the hills. The air smells of rock and pine and Sherlock wonders if there might be time to hike down to the lake and swim before dinner. A chasm of difficulties lie between now and dinner, however; he is privately dreading the two-hour private counselling session with Margaret this afternoon. He hopes rather devoutly that she doesn’t poke too hard at old wounds and re-open them. There is a wealth of subjects which must not be broached if he and John are to remain friends. 

“Still having difficulties?” 

The voice surprises him from behind; he hadn’t even heard the doors open. Sherlock turns suddenly and finds Paul right behind him, too close. He grits his teeth and suppresses the urge to take a large step backward. “Good morning,” he says, his pulse racing. “You startled me.” 

Paul smiles and doesn’t apologise. He raises his brows, waiting for an answer to his question. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “Er, not as such. Not this morning. We have a circle meeting in a few minutes.” 

“Yes, I know.” Paul surveys him, his eyes sliding down Sherlock’s front like a trickle of cold water. “I didn’t see you last night after the contest.” 

Sherlock forces a small smile. “It’s not quite our scene,” he says, careful to word it the way couples speak: _we_ and _us_ and _our_ at all times. “We’re getting on in years, and besides which, we’re taking every opportunity possible to make the most of our time here and work on our relationship.” 

“Which explains why you’re outside and Doctor Watson is nowhere to be seen,” Paul says, without blinking, and it occurs to Sherlock that he’s extremely slippery. Nearly as glib of tongue and as smoothly closed-off as Moriarty was. 

“Well, I do let him relieve himself in privacy,” he says dryly, and Paul is forced to laugh. 

“Touché,” he says in response. He tilts his head back and his thin lips purse a little. “Is it really possible to stop observing and deducing for a brain like yours, though? Are you ever really just on vacation, or therapeutic retreat or whatever you want to call this?” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he says. “Of course. It’s easy enough to ignore things when you’re focused on something else.” 

Paul ignores this, more or less. “The credit card that paid for the both of you is registered to neither of you. In fact, I couldn’t track it at all. The name listed is an alias.” 

This is definitely a challenge now. Sherlock keeps his voice utterly even. “I am somewhat well-known, as is John, if you recall. We relish our privacy.” He hopes rather devoutly that whatever credit card Lestrade used to pay for this has been thoroughly back-stopped. 

Paul eyes him, weighing this. “I see.” 

The door opens behind him and John emerges, blinking in the sunlight. He frowns immediately, seeing Paul there, and comes over to position himself beside Sherlock, putting an arm around his back. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, with a quick, tight smile in Paul’s direction. “Our meeting is about to start, though.” 

“Right,” Sherlock says. He nods at Paul. “See you.” He lets John propel him toward the door, puts his own arm around John’s shoulders and says, his voice low, “Just go with it.” 

“Understood,” John says back, under his breath, and rubs Sherlock’s back for good measure, and he doesn’t let go until they’re inside. 

They’re the last ones to arrive but the others have left their usual spot for them. Neither Scott nor Jeremy is there, their loveseat conspicuously empty. 

Todd seems concerned. “Should we give them a few minutes?” he asks. 

Sherlock and John both keep quiet as the others chip in their thoughts. 

“Scott didn’t eat his breakfast,” Doug says. “We ran into him when we were coming in and he looked like he was in a hurry. Maybe he’s not feeling well!” 

“He wasn’t,” John confirms. “I thought perhaps he’d had a bit too much to drink last night. He wasn’t hungry, so perhaps he’s ill.” 

“What about Jeremy?” Todd asks, frowning. “If it’s a virus, maybe he’s got it, too?” 

Justin and Thom exchange looks. “He did drink a lot last night,” Justin volunteers. 

“Last night?” Todd repeats, looking back and forth between them. 

He appears to genuinely not know about the steam room activities, Sherlock notes. 

Justin coughs. “Yes, at the, er, wet t-shirt contest. He won it and was pretty happy about it.” 

Todd smiles now. “Ah,” he says. “I see. In that case, perhaps we’d best assume they’re not coming.” He clears his throat and crosses his legs at the knee. “Today’s topic, as you know, is sex.” He smiles at them all in turn. “I know: it’s awkward talking about it in public. Sometimes it’s all the more awkward when your partner is there with you. There are things that certain couples never discuss with each other, even – you know, all of those intimate little things that you notice but don’t mention, whether they’re good or bad. That little sound he makes. That specific way he touches you. Those things that no one else would know about besides the two of you. We’re not going to air your most intimate secrets, unless you want to share them, of course. This is going to be up to each individual couple to decide how much they want to share. But it _is_ something we need to talk about – yes, even you, Brad. I see that look you’re giving me! The fact is that we’re men. Male couples have their own brand of issues. Sex is really, really important for most of us. When that’s not working, nothing else will, either. That’s why we encourage you to do whatever it takes to get the physical sides of your relationships going while you’re here, why we frankly _hope_ that you’ll call the front desk with requests for oysters and chocolate sauce, why we stock your showers with as many luxuriant body products as we can find. Let’s be honest: most of us privately think that if sex stopped happening, there’d be no point in staying in the relationship.” He glances around at them. “Yeah? I’m seeing a lot of nods. Good. So let’s talk about it, drag some of this stuff into the light. What kind of issues do you have behind those bedroom doors? Brad and Doug, you mentioned wanting to get a little more spark into your relationship. I assume you mean sexually. Do you want to comment on that?” 

“Oh, sure, pick on the reluctant ones first,” Brad scoffs, but it’s good-natured. He clears his throat. “Er, yeah. That’s that I meant by that. We’re in our fifties and we’ve been together for twenty-one years now. I’d challenge you to find any couple that isn’t looking for some spark by then!” 

“Fair enough,” Todd says, with a smile. He rests his chin on his hand, his elbow on his knee. “What did you do to create spark at the beginning?” 

They glance at each other, then Doug says, “Well, we met in a leather bar. You know: it’s the kind of place that caters to certain kinks and lifestyles, so it’s easy enough to find someone to hook up with. The harder part is finding someone you want to stay with after.” 

“We got lucky that way,” Brad says gruffly, gripping Doug by the knee. “But yeah: we’d go back every weekend with all our gear, you know. Put on a show. Now it seems to be all laundry and taking out the trash.” 

Todd makes a sound of agreement. “How long into your relationship did you stop going to the club?” 

“About ten years?” Doug estimates. “After that, we just started feeling old there. You know how it is. At our kind of clubs, there are older men, but, you know: we started looking middle-aged, if you catch my drift, and it just got easier to stay in and watch the game or whatever. Plus, I started an online business and that’s the sort of thing that keeps you busy round the clock, not just from nine to five.” 

Todd agrees again, and goes on prodding. Sherlock begins to tune them out again, at least until they start sharing graphic details. Then it becomes an issue of listening with as neutral a face on as possible. 

Justin and Thom go next, talking in avid detail that has the rest of them squirming in their seats. Andrew looks at Avi and feigns fanning himself at one point, and everyone laughs. Sherlock finds himself liking the young couple and their unfiltered, spill-everything manner. They’re candid about the fact that they used to frequent sex clubs, but that they’re consciously trying to make a shift to what they call ‘responsible, adult life’. Thom adds that they’ve considered adopting a child, perhaps a few years down the road, but they’re working to see if they can handle running a flat together while juggling their jobs and not paying a cleaner to come in and take care of things for them. Justin says that they’ve had days where they’ve both called in sick and done nothing but had sex in various parts of the flat for the entire day. 

“It’s just not very professional of us,” he says, after describing several acts in more detail than Sherlock needed. He notes that John’s legs are crossed at the knee and that he’s got his most determinedly neutral expression firmly in place. 

Todd talks to them a little longer, inviting comments from the rest of them, and then he turns with a smile to Sherlock and John. “So,” he says expectantly, his eyebrows lifting. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “If you don’t mind, we’d rather not go into too much detail,” he says swiftly. “Just – due to who we are, and being in the public eye and that, we decided that even here, we’d just like to keep things a bit private.”

“Of course,” Todd says, without judgement. “It’s entirely your choice, of course. Let’s speak in general terms, then: are things working well between the two of you in this area of your relationship?” 

Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Very well. Thank you.” 

This gets a wry laugh from the others. “John?” Todd prompts. 

John dips his chin once. “Yeah. Very well,” he agrees, then clears his throat, obviously self-conscious. 

Todd smiles. “I’ll just ask things, how about, and if you don’t want to answer, you don’t need to.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock says, gazing at him levelly. His legs are also crossed at the knee, but he’s got his right knee over his left and John has his left knee over his right, so their feet are almost touching. Sherlock decides this will only help their case. 

Todd’s eyes glint a little. “Who tops?” he asks. “Just curious, of course.” 

John clears his throat again. “Who would you guess?” he shoots back, and Sherlock nearly laughs aloud. _Bravo, John,_ he thinks, silently applauding him. 

Todd leans back and gestures at the others. “Well, gents? What do you think?” 

This gets them six sets of narrowed, calculating eyes, along with Todd’s cool consideration. 

“Sherlock tops,” Justin states, as though it’s a fact. 

Thom looks at him. “Are you _high_? It’s obviously John!” 

“Sherlock,” Andrew says, glancing at them. “Absolutely. It’s all in the demeanour. The coat. The swagger. And he leads, when they work together.” 

“Ah, but does that mean he leads in everything?” Todd asks him, sounding thoughtful. “I wonder. Besides, John’s got a bit of a swagger of his own, if you look closely. It’s subtler, but that may actually just sway me more toward John.” 

Brad clears his throat. “I’m going to have to agree with you and Thom,” he says, nodding at the younger man next to him. “My money’s on John. Takes a top to know a top, right?” This last he aims at John, who grins and neither confirms nor denies it. 

“Not necessarily,” Andrew says defensively. “And there are different ways of topping. Do we mean in the relationship as a whole, or just sexually?” 

“Ah,” Todd says, sounding pleased. “A _very_ salient point, Andrew.” He nods at Avi. “What do you think?” 

Avi looks at Sherlock and John for a long time. Finally he says, “They switch. It’s the only clear answer to me.” 

Sherlock smiles at him, and Todd pounces on this. “Aha!” he says triumphantly. “I think we have a winner! Bravo, Avi!” He leans forward again. “Do you two have any particular kinks you want to tell us about? Bondage, role-play, golden showers?” 

“No, we’re pretty – standard,” Sherlock says blandly. “We do all of the usual things.” 

John glances at him. “Although,” he says, as though confiding a secret, “Sherlock has a certain – fondness, shall we say – for my old army uniforms.” 

This gets a chorus of reactions, and Sherlock feels his face heat. How the hell does John know about that?! He coughs. “I thought we weren’t discussing the private stuff,” he says pointedly, as though under his breath but deliberately loud enough to be overheard. 

John chuckles and pats him on the knee. “Yeah, but you’re cute when you’re blushing,” he says, and this makes Sherlock’s face heat all the more. John is a good actor, better than he used to be, and Sherlock wishes profoundly that this were real, awkward or not. It doesn’t mean a thing that John is touching him like this. 

“So what do you fight about?” Todd wants to know. 

Sherlock hesitates, but John comes to the rescue this time, clearly having prepared an answer to this in advance. “He’s a workaholic,” he says. “When there’s a case on, it’s like his physical needs get put on hold. He doesn’t eat or sleep, says his body is just transport.” 

“I think I’ve actually heard you say that in interviews, Sherlock,” Todd comments. “Go on,” he says to John. “So I assume that sex is included in that.” 

John nods. “Yup. Unfortunate for me, since my needs are there whether or not we have a case.” 

Sherlock feigns slight frustration, turning his head partway toward John. “You told me that you understood that,” he says. “You said that our work is more important than your incessant need for sex.” 

“It’s hardly ‘incessant’; it’s just – regular,” John insists, and this is good, Sherlock thinks. They really sound like they’re bickering. 

Todd looks at him. “Could you possibly try to make some exceptions for John’s sake?” he asks. “Stereotypical or not, it tends to be very hard for us men to not equate lack of sex with lack of love.” 

“I do make exceptions,” Sherlock retorts. 

John looks at him, looking as though he’s fighting the urge to laugh. “Like when?” he asks, blinking innocently at Sherlock through his long, golden lashes. 

Sherlock doesn’t hold back. “Like that time we were chasing that jewellery thief last month,” he says. “We caught him and then I jerked you off right there in that alley.” 

John coughs. “Oh, right,” he says, as though remembering, but a red flush is creeping up his neck. “I remember that.” 

“That’s good, Sherlock,” Todd praises. “Perhaps you could make more exceptions in the future, even mid-case, before you catch the jewellery thieves and all that. I mean, obviously some aspects of your work must be time-sensitive, but when they’re not. Taking time to make our partners feel loved is so important.” 

“Right,” Sherlock says, nodding obediently. “Of course.” 

Todd lectures John about being patient next, and not getting demanding, which makes Sherlock want to laugh, too. There’s a horrible irony about the entire thing. The most physical they’ve ever been was yesterday morning’s brief, chaste, one-sided kiss. He sighs, but manages to keep it from being noticed by anyone. 

Todd moves on to Andrew and Avi at last, and Sherlock gets lost in his own, private musings and doesn’t pay them any attention whatsoever. 

*** 

Somehow it’s not terribly awkward afterward. They go back to the room and discuss Sherlock’s idea about going down to the lake for a swim after their session with Margaret and study the map. Sherlock does feel that there’s a lot not being said, but perhaps John is also feeling apprehensive about what might come out during the afternoon. They go to lunch and eat lobster salad on freshly-baked baguette with crisply fried chips and green salads. They each have a glass of cider with it, though Sherlock is careful to limit it to one glass; the last thing he needs today is to let down his inhibitions. John, he notes, does the same. Neither of them has mentioned their therapy session since the morning and somehow Sherlock feels this has only heightened their mutual awareness of it. 

When it’s time, they knock at the door of Margaret’s office in the back building and she calls to come in. 

“Welcome,” she says, smiling over her glasses at them. She gestures. “Have a seat.” 

They appear to have several options for arranging themselves. Margaret’s office is spacious and sunny with skylights and potted trees, a table fountain trickling in one corner. Her chair faces a loveseat similar to the ones in the common room, with a plush armchair on either side. They can either sit together or not. Or very not, Sherlock thinks, considering the two armchairs. John glances at him, then goes and sits down on the loveseat. After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock goes and sits beside him. 

“Are you nervous?” Margaret asks nicely, still smiling. 

They exchange another look. Sherlock decides that honesty will be the easiest route wherever possible. “Yes,” he says. “A little.” 

John agrees, and Margaret tucks a long, wavy strand of straying hair behind her ear. “Don’t be,” she says. “It’s natural, but there’s no need for it. You’re with the person I would assume is your best friend. After all, he should be.” 

John looks at Sherlock. “He is,” he says firmly, and Sherlock feels a curl of warmth in his abdomen and gives a tight smile without meeting John’s eyes. Too dangerous. 

Margaret’s eyes are razor sharp, in contrast with her serene face. “So that’s settled,” she says. “And I’m just here to help you listen to one another. A conduit. A neutral one. I may direct you, prompt your conversation with questions, but you needn’t prove anything to me or put on any sort of façade. This is about the two of you.” She adjusts her glasses and smiles again. “So,” she says. “Let’s begin. You may be one of the most mysterious couples we have here right now. I wasn’t aware that you were in a romantic relationship in the first place. I saw your wedding announced in the papers, John.” 

They’re going straight in from the deep end, then, Sherlock thinks cryptically. He studies his fingernails and listens hard for John’s response to this observation. 

John is stiff. “Er, yes,” he says. He hesitates. “Some of that, I can’t talk about, for security purposes. I’m not holding out or anything, just – ”

Margaret swivels her chair around to reach for something on her desk. “I forgot about this,” she says, and passes a card over – to Sherlock, not John. 

He takes it. It’s Mycroft’s business card. On the back it says, _She’s been read in. Go ahead._ He sighs and gives it to John, who also sighs. “Of course he can’t stay out of even this,” John says, with irritation, and gives the card back to Margaret. 

Her eyes twinkle. “I can only imagine how meddlesome he can be. I worked with him very briefly on a project several years back. I’ve been read in to the background of your wife, John. I know that she shot Sherlock. What I don’t know is why you married her.” 

“Join the club,” John says, with a humourless laugh. Margaret just gazes at him, though, so he clears his throat. It takes him a long time to collect his thoughts. Finally, he inhales deeply, then begins to speak. “Look. Four years ago, the entire world thought that Sherlock committed suicide, me included. I was there. I saw it. It was… I can’t tell you how hard it was. Thinking he’d really killed himself, that he’d believed himself to be a public disgrace. That I’d let him down, stopped believing in him. Or that it wasn’t enough, just me believing in him. I was so angry. I couldn’t believe he’d made me watch him do it, either.” 

“You weren’t supposed to be there,” Sherlock says, forgetting his nails and speaking to his knees instead. “I did my utmost to get you out of there, if you’ll recall.” 

John shakes his head. “It didn’t work. I came back.” 

“It _did_ work, because you believed me to be a heartless machine who didn’t care about Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says, quiet but obstinate. He can’t look at John. “For all that you ‘believed in me’ then, you still took that bait. It wasn’t my fault that Moriarty dragged it all out for as long as he did. I ran out of time. I tried, John. I tried to spare you from seeing it. But once you were there, I had to make sure that you believed it.” 

John shakes his head. “That’s almost the worst part,” he says tersely. 

Margaret leans forward. “Why, John? Why that, in particular?” 

“Because he lied to me,” John bites out, his temper flaring. “Because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me what he was really doing. Because scores of other people got to know that he was still alive, but not me – I had to see him fall, hit the pavement, bleed out right there in front of my eyes. I had to grieve. And I _did_ grieve,” he says fiercely, not looking at Sherlock. “I cried so hard sometimes that I made myself sick. Went for days without eating. Slept round the clock, couldn’t work, couldn’t clean anything, couldn’t see anyone. You might as well have killed me when you ‘died’, only you didn’t die, did you? You were off gallivanting around Europe and God knows where else.” 

“Yes, well, if there is a God, only he _would_ know, because you certainly don’t,” Sherlock retorts, stung to his core by John’s accusations. He’s still hurt by this, he realises only now, hurt that John never asked. 

Margaret gazes at them both with compassion. “So why did you do it that way, Sherlock?” she asks. “Were you unaware that it would affect John so profoundly?” 

“Of course not,” Sherlock says shortly. “That was the _point_. I needed him to believe it. I needed him to be seen grieving.” 

Margaret looks confused. “But why?” she repeats. “Why put him through that without telling him?” 

Sherlock feels his jaw clench. “Because I was trying to save his life.” 

Now John looks at him, his eyes dark. “What?” he demands, still irritated. “What are you talking about?” 

“You didn’t want to hear about it when I came back – or at any other time,” Sherlock says, an edge to his voice. “But Moriarty had snipers on you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. It was one of the reasons why I wanted you there with Mrs Hudson. I found out later that the sniper meant for her was right there in the flat all along. The deal was that they had to see me jump, or else the three of you would be killed. I couldn’t let that happen.” 

John is staring at him. “ _What?_ ” he says again, his forehead creasing. “Sherlock – ”

Sherlock speaks over him. “You need to remember that I didn’t know this in advance. I didn’t know what his plans were. My brother and I came up with as many scenarios as possible, but Moriarty was always a step ahead of us. There was always another twist that we hadn’t thought of. He targeted the three people most important to me: two semi-parental figures that I’ve always been closer to than my own parents, and you.” He takes a long breath and realises that he’s tense all over. He lets the breath out, then goes on, not looking at either of them. “We hadn’t thought of that, Mycroft and I. I should have. Moriarty had already targeted you once before, so why not again, when it mattered the most? And only he could call the snipers off. He destroyed that option by killing himself, so I had no choice but to jump, and by that point you’d come back.” 

“And the snipers were still watching,” Margaret says, her eyes focused keenly on him. 

Sherlock nods. “I needed them to see John truly grieving. I knew they would be watching for weeks to come. They needed to see him attend a funeral, a grave site. I didn’t know how long they would wait, and I had a network of terrorist rings to dismantle. As for ‘gallivanting’, I didn’t have a particularly good time. Not that you’ve ever asked.” 

This last is stiff and more than a little resentful. He steals a look at John, who seems to be breathing with difficulty. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks heavily. “About the snipers. I thought I was pretty clear the night you came back that I wanted to know why.” 

Sherlock feels his shoulder twitch. “I couldn’t,” he says briefly. “I started to, but I said the wrong part first and you were so impatient. And we weren’t alone. Which I _realise_ was my own fault,” he adds, before John can say it. 

“But at no point after, in the two years that followed, did you think to tell me this?” John asks, angry. “Jesus, Sherlock! Considering that my _life_ was at stake here, don’t you think I had some right to know?” 

The accusation stabs like a knife. Sherlock can’t look at him, so he looks down at his hands. “I didn’t think you wanted to hear about it,” he says quietly. “I was – grateful that you were speaking to me again at all.” 

He senses rather than sees Margaret turn to John. “Did you have a difficult time accepting the fact that he was still alive?” she asks. 

John is mutinous. “ _Yes_ ,” he says. “Wouldn’t you have done?!” 

“I can imagine how betrayed you must have felt, especially if you thought that he was off having some sort of adventure without you, while you had stayed behind to suffer terribly,” Margaret says gravely. “Absolutely.” 

“ _Thank_ you,” John says, pissily. 

“However,” Margaret says. She pauses. “Sherlock, I think it’s time you told John what you endured while you were away from England. Some of it, at least. John needs to know this, whether or not he’s expressed a desire to hear it.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “There’s no point going into it. Not now. It’s long over.” 

“I fully disagree,” Margaret says firmly. “It’s incredibly alive and with you both acutely and vividly. I think this may be the single most important hurdle for the two of you to get past. John has grieved – grieved terribly. And you’ve suffered terribly, too, Sherlock. You owe it to one another and yourselves for this understanding to finally come about. John needs to hear a full, thorough explanation of why you had to do what you did, so that he can understand that it was neither your choice, nor your desire, nor your thoughtlessness, nor your wilful exclusion of him. And you have every need for him to understand precisely that, and also what that experience was for you. You know that: you’ve wanted him to ask, and he hasn’t – though maybe he’s wanted to, and pride has kept him from it. Today is the day, gentlemen.” She takes off her glasses and lets them hang from the cord around her neck, then clasps her hands around her left knee where it’s crossing the right one. “Tell him about it, Sherlock,” she invites. 

Sherlock blinks and doesn’t speak. For a long time he debates internally, wondering what to say, what the point of this even is. 

“Hey,” John says, quieter now. “I do want to hear this. I really want to.” 

Sherlock glances at him, his lashes shielding his gaze. “Do you?” he asks, very directly. 

John nods and swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I need to. She’s – right. For all that I’ve said that you should have told me about the snipers, I also I should have asked about – all of it. I have wondered. So many times. Please tell me.” 

Sherlock swallows, too, then says, quietly, “I was hunting down Moriarty’s network. It led to other networks. I was in Europe and many parts of Asia. I was alone. I was captured three different times. I would have been killed in the last instance had Mycroft not finally intervened.” 

“You were beaten,” Margaret says, her voice even but gentle. 

Sherlock raises his eyes to hers. It wasn’t a question. “How do you know?” he asks, not denying it. 

“Roberto told me that there are scars on your back – multiple layers of them.” Margaret’s face is terribly compassionate. “You were whipped. More than once.” 

Sherlock nods, swallowing. He wanted John to know this, yet never knew how to tell him, and nonetheless dreaded him finding out. Now that it’s happening, he wishes it weren’t. He feels nauseated. 

“What!” John is shocked. “Hard enough to leave scars years later?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, looking at his hands. His lips move, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John is like a furnace, beginning the build-up to a full roar, the anger still under control, but not for long. “Sherlock – _why didn’t you tell me?_ All of it!”

His anger is white-hot and dangerous now, and Sherlock does not want to be in this place with John again. The last time he was this angry, it really was the end of their friendship. It would have been, had Mrs Hudson not intervened. Everything that has been going well so far this week has ceased to matter: this will be the end. This is precisely what he feared. “I didn’t think you cared,” he says starkly. “You stopped believing in me.” 

The bare truth is out now, lying between them, exposed in its ugliness. 

Margaret purses her lips and turns to John. “Is this why you married Mary?” she asks gently. “For the safer option? To be with someone you thought wouldn’t lie to you?” 

John’s face drains of colour and he shoots to his feet. “Could we take a brief break?” he asks, his voice so tight it’s nearly strangled. “I just – need some air.” 

Margaret sits back. “Yes, of course,” she says, looking a bit concerned. “You will come back, though?” 

“Yes,” John says. “Definitely. I just – need a moment.” 

Margaret nods and stands. “Why don’t you both take ten?” she suggests. “I’ll be right here. Get a glass of mineral water or something.” 

They both leave and John makes for the bathroom in the corridor. Sherlock walks slowly toward the large bank of windows looking out on the hills. He feels blank and lost, and desperately needs a cigarette all of a sudden. His gut is in turmoil. Has it really come down to this, then? Did John marry Mary out of spite? Could he have prevented their marriage from ever happening if he’d only told John about the snipers that night? 

He leans his forehead against the cool glass. He’s made a colossal mess of everything. He knew that John had never forgiven him for that day at Bart’s Hospital, but he hadn’t known exactly how deep the anger and resentment ran. And now he’s compounded it, quite probably, in his accusation that John stopped believing in him. Why shouldn’t he have, given what he thought Sherlock had done to him? He shouldn’t have said it aloud, though. Perhaps that was one step too far. 

The bathroom door opens a few minutes later. There are footsteps and then John stops behind him. “Hey,” he says, his voice low. “You okay?” 

Sherlock doesn’t know how to answer this and stares unseeingly at the bare grey stone of the hills. “Was this a mistake, coming here?” he asks, his voice colourless and dull. “Have we ruined everything?” 

There’s a pause. “No,” John says firmly. “I don’t think we have. I think we’ve needed to talk about this for a long time now. A really long time. It’s just – difficult.” 

Sherlock turns to face him. “Do you want to go back in there?” he asks, very directly. “If you’d rather not, I would understand.” 

“No!” John says hastily. He searches for the right wording, then says, “I don’t want to quit. I genuinely do want to work through this. And – there are things I need to say to you. Important things.” 

Sherlock wonders if any of these things are detailed reasons why they simply cannot go on being friends. But he inhales slowly, squashing down the turmoil in his gut, and nods. “Okay,” he says. 

John gives him a tight smile. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s do this.” 

Margaret masks her relief at seeing their return almost well enough for Sherlock to miss it, but he doesn’t. She smiles and indicates the loveseat. “All right,” she says pleasantly. “Sherlock: why do you doubt John’s belief in you? Is it only because he fell for the trick you devised to get him away from the hospital that day?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “He told me,” he says, his voice not entirely steady. “He wrote me a letter.” 

Margaret glances at John, but continues talking to Sherlock. “What did the letter say?” 

“It said that I had failed him in every way possible,” Sherlock says, his throat tightening as he repeats the words that shredded him. “He said he never should have trusted me and that he never wanted to see me again. I should think that would be… adequately clear.” 

John shakes his head, looking down at his hands. 

Margaret looks at him curiously. “What are you shaking your head for?” she asks. “Is that not what you wrote?” 

“No, I did,” John says bleakly. “I shouldn’t have. It’s not true. I shifted a whole bunch of shit onto Sherlock that I had no right to do and I hate that I did that.” He looks at Sherlock. “I’m sorry for that letter,” he says, sounding miserable. “It’s – yeah. It’s one of the ugliest things I’ve ever done in my life. That, and that day at the hospital. What I did in the morgue, and then… coming back later, with the cane. God. I’m so ashamed of myself, you know. Have been ever since. And I just… couldn’t make myself say it, how sorry I am. I am, though. I’ve – been an utter shit to you ever since Mary died.” 

Sherlock shifts, not sure what to do with this. “You were grieving,” he says, though he knows from what John’s told him about the marriage that this isn’t quite the right term. There was grief, yes, but at least half of it was grief over the failure itself, and guilt over the text affair. 

“Sort of,” John says. “What I was really grieving was the fact that I’d got into that marriage in the first place.” He glances at Margaret. “You’re not wrong at all. I did marry Mary at least partly out of resentment toward Sherlock. I thought I was making a safer life choice. Not only was it not a safe choice at all, she very nearly took Sherlock out of my life all over again. And now, hearing that he was doing everything he was doing and enduring everything he went through for my sake – I can’t tell you what a worm I feel like. And even after all that, after I beat him half to death in a hospital one day and walked out on him without even having the guts to say goodbye to his face, he still took me back without a second thought, and kept me from falling apart completely after my daughter died. I’ve done nothing to deserve it, and yet he’s just been there for me like no one else I’ve ever known.” 

Sherlock’s throat is tight and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. John is speaking using couple terms – taking back, being there for each other – yet it doesn’t matter. It’s still true of their situation. 

“Sherlock?” Margaret prompts gently. “Would you like to say anything just now?” 

Sherlock looks down at his palms. “I just wanted him to come home,” he says, very quietly. “The rest – didn’t matter. Still doesn’t.” 

“That letter mattered,” John says, looking at his feet. “I hurt you. You can say it.” 

Sherlock hesitates, then nods slowly. “All right,” he says, and the admission is painful. “It hurt. A lot.” 

“I’m sorry,” John says, very quietly, his voice not entirely even. “So sorry, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I deserved your loss of faith,” he says. “I hurt you. And I completely missed how unhappy you were with Mary. And I asked you to trust me, and I was wrong.” 

John frowns. “When?” 

“About the scalpel,” Sherlock says. “You had a reason for beating me. I – I was out of control.” 

John meets his eyes, his gaze direct and unwavering. “I couldn’t have a repeat of Magnussen,” he says, his voice strained. “For your sake or mine. But it went well beyond what it should have done. The truth is, I’d lost faith in everything, myself included. I couldn’t see anything clearly. But I should have. I should have trusted you. There was always a reason for what you were doing. As of today, I know that. I never should have doubted you. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock nods. “Okay,” he says. He takes a breath, then adds, “I’m sorry for not telling you about the snipers. And for your grief.” 

John shakes his head. “I’d say I’ve punished you far more than enough.” He sounds bleak. 

Margaret leans in toward him. “You’re beating yourself up,” she says softly. “But that isn’t the way to make reparations. Why don’t you do something now, just something small, to show Sherlock in a tangible, physical way, how much you still care for him, no matter what’s all happened between you over the years. He’s a scientist: he needs to see it plainly, needs something provable. And touch is how we bond. Words can be enough, for friends. But lovers need touch.” 

John hesitates, then reaches for Sherlock’s left hand and pulls it out of his lap. He turns it palm up, Sherlock watching, hardly breathing, then doesn’t only take it, but slips his fingers between Sherlock’s, their palms pressed together. It feels almost shockingly intimate to Sherlock and for a moment his brains blurs, unable to process anything with all of his sensibilities alert to the fact that John is holding his hand – and holding it in a way that a lover might. If he’s doing this for show, he needn’t have gone so far with it. Just taking his hand would have been enough. But this – with their fingers linked together – Sherlock can hardly breathe, much less speak. 

Margaret looks at him, her kind face smiling, the lines around her eyes crinkling. “Look at him,” she encourages John. “He looks shocked. Like he’s never been touched in a way that meant so much to him before.” 

She sees directly into him, Sherlock feels, but it’s all he can do to keep his face as neutral as it is. 

John turns his face and looks into Sherlock’s eyes, his face brimming with emotion, making tight lines around his mouth, his eyes dark holes in his head. Sherlock doesn’t know how to read this expression, but is very much aware that his heart is pounding against his temples and thoracic cavity. 

A faint chime sounds. “And there we are,” Margaret says gently. “Time’s up, gentlemen. I have time later in the week if you want to come back. For now, why don’t you take some time alone together? There may still be more you need to say to one another.” 

Sherlock isn’t quite aware of what he says, if he says anything. He fully expects John to release his hand then, but he doesn’t. They stand jointly, and John still doesn’t let go. He will when they leave the office, then, Sherlock thinks, but John continues as though they’re still being observed. Their fingers are laced together, John’s palm warm and dry against his own. When he still doesn’t let go as they walk away, Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. Perhaps this isn’t only for show, then. Perhaps John truly wants to be holding his hand this way. The thought is stunning. They make their way through the back building and toward the north guest wing, encountering no one. They don’t say a word, walking together as though on a secret mission, hand-in-hand, and Sherlock’s pulse is hammering all the louder against his ear drums.

When they reach the room, Sherlock digs for his card key with his free hand and scans it through the reader. The lock clicks and the door opens. Sherlock closes it behind them and turns the bolt, John still holding his hand. Sherlock turns away from the door and John is there, facing him. He steps very, very close to Sherlock, close enough that it’s not awkward to have their hands linked this way. For a long moment, they stand there that way, their foreheads almost touching, looking at each other’s mouths. The tension between them is palpable, both of them wondering almost audibly, _Is this really happening?_ Sherlock can feel John’s breath on his lips and knows that John must be able to feel his in return. Then John comes closer still, his eyes flicking up to Sherlock’s just once. His face drifts even closer and then his lips touch Sherlock’s, warm and very, very right. They’re not moving, just standing there with their lips touching tentatively, and it’s at once gentle, dizzyingly intimate, and nearly overwhelming. The kiss ends, then begins again, Sherlock tilting his head a little and closing the millimetres of space between their mouths to do it again, and it’s stronger this time, their mouths pressed together. Sherlock feels as though he could pass out, but he doesn’t want to miss a moment of this. Not now! He’s thirsted for this for years and never thought he could have it. He lets go of John’s hand after a little and puts his arms around John’s shoulders, and John puts his around Sherlock’s middle and pulls him closer. Their kissing grows rapidly less tentative and more certain, John’s lips catching at his lower one. Sherlock mimics him, doing the same, and that’s even better, more intimate still. Sherlock’s heart is beating so hard he can feel his pulse in every limb now, pounding into John’s arms and chest. The gentle suction of John’s mouth on his feels better than anything he’s ever felt in his life to date, the feel of it making him dizzy and he kisses back to the very best of his ability, incapable of doing anything else whatsoever. 

After a bit, John breaks it off, but pulls Sherlock’s forehead to his, his hands on Sherlock’s face, and they stand there, breathing deeply, looking into each other’s eyes and Sherlock feels so much he thinks it could break him. John’s thumbs stroke over his cheeks. “This should have happened years ago – but I just couldn’t see the truth. You have always been everything I ever could have asked for, and far beyond,” he says, his voice so choked with emotion that it makes Sherlock’s stomach hurt. “I mean that, Sherlock. You’ve done everything a person could do for another person, and I’ve underestimated you over and over again. I will never doubt you again. Never. I promise.” 

Sherlock’s heart seems to swell so far he’s afraid his ribs will crack open. “I got everything so wrong,” he says, hardly able to speak. “If I had just told you, maybe we could have avoided so much of what’s happened in the past two years.” 

John shakes his head minutely. “My fault, not yours,” he says. 

“Joint effort,” Sherlock tries, and John nods and kisses him again. It goes on even longer this time, no holds barred now. Their mouths open and John touches his tongue to Sherlock’s, gently, not demanding, and Sherlock responds, a shudder running down his back. _This_ is now the most intimate thing he’s ever felt. He presses in with his tongue and body both, his hands stroking over John’s back, then he lets himself grip John’s face with his left, his fingers in the softness of John’s short hair. The desire to babble out reams of sentimental nonsense floods his impulses. Some of it slips out before he can stop himself. “I would do anything for you,” he murmurs the next time there’s an opportunity. He puts his lips to John’s forehead, his cheeks, his mouth again, then again. “Anything at all.” 

John moans softly. “I know. God, I know that now. Can you really forgive me – for everything I’ve done, Sherlock? That letter – the hospital – for Mary!” 

“Shh,” Sherlock says, stilling John’s words with his mouth again. “Stop. It’s behind us now.” He kisses John again and again and John doesn’t refuse him at all, kissing back with just as much hunger for it, and his very hunger fills Sherlock’s bones with fire. “I’ll never keep anything from you again. Promise.” 

“And I’ll – just – ask, and try not to be a prick all the time,” John says.

He cups Sherlock’s face with his hands again, making Sherlock feel so cared for, so much like he’s the only thing in the world that matters for John at all right now, that he can barely speak. He puts his hands on top of John’s and tries not to combust with emotion on the spot. 

A knock at the door startles them both. “Are we expecting someone or something?” John asks, his voice low. 

“Not to my knowledge,” Sherlock says. They haven’t moved. “I suppose we should attempt to pull ourselves together and get that.” 

John makes a face that shows what he thinks of this plan, but he says, “All right. If you insist.” 

They break apart with reluctance and Sherlock goes to the door. 

It’s Scott. He glances nervously around the corridor, then says, “Can I please come in? It’s Jeremy. I think he’s gone missing.” 

***


	2. Chapter 2

*

“Go from the start,” John orders. 

They’re sitting at the table, Scott in Sherlock’s chair while Sherlock paces behind John’s. Scott clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I know you guys are here on vacation and for relationship stuff, but I just thought, being who you are and all. I don’t know who else to ask. If Jeremy’s actually missing, then I don’t know who I can trust.” 

“No, you did the right thing,” Sherlock says. “Don’t speak to anyone else about this. From the start, please.” 

Scott explains that he last saw Jeremy at the café/bar at the contest the previous night, reviews their discussion of attending the activities in the steam room, then says that Jeremy never came back to their room. Thinking that he’d slept elsewhere, Scott fully expected him to turn up mid-morning, sheepish and apologetic. By early afternoon, Scott began to wonder if Jeremy had felt so badly about what he’d done that he’d left both Ravine Valley and him. 

“Not to be insensitive, but why don’t you think so now?” John asks. 

His voice is even and gentle and Sherlock wants to stop and bury his face in John’s hair, wrap his arms around him. _Focus_ , he tells himself sternly, though the case-fuelled adrenaline is already coursing through his veins. 

Scott explains. “He would never have left without the watch his dad gave him for his university graduation. His dad died three years ago and he’s obsessive about that watch. He once thought he’d lost it and was absolutely hysterical. There’s no way he would have willingly left it behind, even if it was the only thing he took. But he left his laptop, ipod, his expensive gym shoes, his phone charger, and the leather jacket he just got last autumn. He likes his stuff. He’d have packed if he were leaving me for good. And the fact is that no one has seen him. I’ve asked a couple of the other guys, none of the staff, and no one has seen him since the steam room.” 

Sherlock stops pacing. “All right,” he says, very evenly. “Here’s what you’re going to do. John, would you pass me the daily schedule, please?” 

John reaches for it and passes it back, their eyes meeting for a moment. John smiles, just a small one, and Sherlock’s heart spasms. He has to clear his throat before he can speak again. He consults the schedule. “Okay: it’s now twenty-three minutes past four. At half-past, there’s a discussion of gay men in the workplace in the courtyard. Go to it. If anyone asks about Jeremy, tell them that he’s sick in bed. If it’s someone you asked earlier, tell them he turned up, just went to see the nurse earlier. Otherwise, don’t discuss it. Keep yourself surrounded by people at all times. If there’s a break between the discussion and dinner, stay in the common room or café. Invite yourself along to someone’s hike. Whatever it takes. Don’t go back to your room. And then come to dinner. Don’t sit with us. We’ll find you. Give John your mobile number.” 

Scott recites it obediently and John puts it into his phone, then texts the contact info to Sherlock as Sherlock knew he would. “Okay,” Scott says uncertainly. “Does that mean you think Jeremy _was_ abducted, then? Do you think I’m in danger somehow?” 

John defers to Sherlock. Sherlock shakes his head. “Maybe, but we don’t know for certain. If someone has gone missing, it’s safest to assume that it’s a strong possibility. Go to the discussion now. If anyone sees you leaving or saw you coming into our room, tell them that you borrowed some paracetamol or something. Invent something easy to back up and impossible to prove wrong.” 

Scott nods. “All right. Thank you so much.” He lets out a shaky breath. “God – if he’s missing and something happens to him all because I was too slow to notice, because I thought he’d cheated on me again – I’ll never forgive myself.” 

John looks at Sherlock, then says, “We all make mistakes. If something happens to him, it won’t be your fault. You’d best go, though, before other people are in the corridors for the activity start time.” 

“Right. Thanks.” Scott glances out into the corridor, then slips out. John follows him to the door and locks it behind him. 

He turns to Sherlock, who is already lifting his phone to his ear. “Lestrade,” he says briefly. “I need two things. You may need help with one of them. Are you listening? First, I need everything you’ve got on the person who went missing from this place last year. Second, I need an immediate extraction. Within the next two hours. There’s no time to send a car from London. Call my brother and have him send a chopper to the train station in Worcester.” 

“The train station!” Lestrade repeats. “What, and just land it in the parking lot?”

“I don’t care; have it land on the roof if necessary,” Sherlock says, with annoyance. “Just do it! I need everything you have on the disappearance of both the original missing person and the partner who reported it.” 

“I’ll send it over on the double. What time do you need the chopper exactly?” Lestrade asks. 

Sherlock calculates. “Quarter to seven at the station.” 

“Consider it done.” Lestrade hangs up. 

John comes over and sits down. “He’s emailing the file?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock sits down, too, opening his laptop. “Why Jeremy, do you suppose?” he asks. 

John shrugs. “It all depends on why he was abducted, if he was abducted. I mean, there’s no law against being attractive.” 

“He wasn’t aggressive, not a trouble maker,” Sherlock says, frowning and waiting for Lestrade’s email. “He seemed to get along with everyone.” 

“Too well,” John agrees. “Do you think it has something to do with the wet t-shirt contest?” 

“I have absolutely no idea.” His email pings and Sherlock feels a surge of adrenaline. “Aha!” 

John gets up and comes to read over his shoulder, his proximity far more distracting than he probably realises. “So,” he says. “Jimmy Walders, possibly not his real name, reported that his partner Ian Loring went missing while on a week-long stay here last year.”

Sherlock has already read ahead. “He posted the comment on a community review board, and the comment was removed within literal minutes, or so he reported to the police. The police came up here and did a check around, but there was no sign of Loring. He and Walders had been fighting while here, and they concluded that Loring had left Walders and Ravine Valley at the same time and never contacted him again.” 

“Scroll down,” John requests, and Sherlock does it. John scans the screen in silence with him for a moment or two, then says, “But he never took his things. Either from here or from the flat he shared with Walders.” 

“Which immediately makes it suspicious,” Sherlock agrees. 

“And sounds rather familiar,” John says, frowning. “I think you’re entirely right that Scott is in a great deal of danger now, particularly if he starts asking around about Jeremy’s disappearance.” 

Sherlock’s phone rings. He looks at the screen and sighs. 

“Best get that,” John says, squeezing his shoulder and moving away. 

Sherlock wants to get up and go after him, but reluctantly makes himself answer the call instead. The conflicting desires to work on the case and to go to John and insert himself back into his arms are warring ferociously within him. “Brother mine,” he says into the phone, endeavouring to keep his voice calm and bland. 

“Jimmy Walders was not his real name,” Mycroft informs him without preamble. “I’ve been looking into it. Walders’ real name was James Wilson. He made the online comment as well as the police report from Ravine Valley, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock feels his stomach drop. “So whatever happened to him happened while he was still here,” he says. 

“Indeed.” His brother sounds grim. “How are you planning to get Scott Murray to the train station to meet the helicopter?” 

“A taxi,” Sherlock tells him. “I’ll call for it to come at precisely six o’clock at the front doors. It’s the safest time for him to slip through the front lobby and out to the taxi, when everyone else is going in to dinner. Can you have the driver be one of your agents?” 

“I’ll arrange it with the dispatch office,” Mycroft says. “Do not allow this man to be killed, Sherlock. I’ve taken over the investigation.” 

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course you have. Do you have any idea where Jeremy might be?” 

If he thought Mycroft sounded sombre before, he was wrong. John comes over to hover nearby, listening for Mycroft’s answer. Mycroft sighs. “In fact… I may have an idea. You won’t like this. I have been trying for some time now, without success, to pin down a human trafficking ring I believe to be based out of Moscow.” 

“Human trafficking,” Sherlock repeats, stunned. “For what purpose? I thought that the majority of these cases targeted women and children.” 

“There is also a market for male prostitutes, although that term suggests financial restitution,” Mycroft tells him grimly. “It’s far more likely that this is a modern form of slavery. When you think about it, it makes a modicum of sense: you have a lot of men of a certain orientation – and thereby potentially possessing a certain skill set – already captive in one place… is your victim attractive, based on typical societal norms for a man of his age?” 

“Quite,” Sherlock says. “He won a wet t-shirt contest. It was right before he disappeared.” 

“It seems first place came with quite a special distinction, then,” Mycroft says wryly. “I haven’t got proof, but these disappearances – carefully selected, just here and there, in an environment where one partner leaving could be fairly easily explained due to pre-existing relationship tensions which have potentially become inflamed – it could be a very clever set-up, indeed. Let me look into things from my end. I’ll speak with my sources in Interpol and other agencies. Meanwhile, Lestrade is looking into other reported disappearances from Ravine Valley or directly after a visit there. There would always have been a partner to deal with, unless both men were taken.” 

“All right,” Sherlock says. “What do we do now?” 

“Get Scott Murray away cleanly,” Mycroft instructs him. “Then call me back after dinner. Carry on as though everything is completely normal. If others engage you in conversation about either party’s disappearance, engage in casual gossip, nothing more.” 

“Done,” Sherlock says, and hangs up. 

John comes and sits down in his chair again, looking worried. “Should I text Scott and tell him about the taxi?” 

Sherlock nods. “Please.” 

John types, then sends the message and looks up at him again. “So they take one partner and pawn him off into a sex ring in Russia, and do what with the other partner?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “Kill him, I presume. Or take them both.” 

“If they target young, fit men, should we be concerned about Justin and Thom?” John asks. “Andrew and Avi are attractive enough, but not like those two.” 

“Fair point,” Sherlock says. He feels troubled. “I can’t think of a way to warn them off any off-the-schedule activities, however.” He falls into silence, thinking of Jeremy at the steam room circle jerk. “I wonder if Jeremy’s… further talents were what sealed the deal. It would seem that he was taken immediately after the steam room.” 

John nods. “It’s sick,” he says with disgust. “And this is a place that does therapy! Do you think all the staff are in on it?” 

Sherlock frowns. “I want to believe they aren’t,” he says. “The counselling staff in particular. It’s hard to doubt Todd’s sincerity, or Margaret’s.” 

“And Todd’s partner is Lucas, the president,” John points out. “Do you think _he’s_ in on it?” 

“I have no idea,” Sherlock says. He scowls. “You know who does strike me as suspicious? Paul.” 

John scowls, too. “Definitely. You’re right: there’s definitely something off about him.” 

“Something predatory,” Sherlock says flatly, thinking of Paul’s insolent gaze. “He invited us to the steam room, remember?” 

“Well, you in particular; I was just invited along for the ride,” John says, very dryly. “There was no mistake in my mind about who was going to be touching you, though.” 

Sherlock shudders. “Never.” 

John shakes his head. “Not on my watch,” he vows, and Sherlock feels a thrill run through his frame. 

He has to concentrate, though, or he’ll forget about the case entirely. “I’m sure there are security cameras everywhere…” 

“I would bet they don’t show the steam room,” John says darkly. Then, “Hey. What about the hiking trails, and how they’re closed at night?” 

Sherlock looks at him. “What about it?” 

“Do you think that’s how they get the victims out?” John asks. “Both the ones they abduct, and the ones they kill, if they’re killing people? I mean, they own all that land, right? There could be a little road down there, near the lake, maybe.” 

Sherlock nods slowly. “You could be onto something,” he says. “Now I really wish we’d had a chance to get down there today.” 

John smiles. “We were a little distracted,” he says. 

His smile hits Sherlock directly in the solar plexus and he blinks several times, trying to get his breath back. “We were,” he manages to say, and John gets up, bends over him, and kisses him again. It’s messy and wet, their tongues tangling together, and then it’s over, far too quickly. 

“Sorry,” John murmurs, putting his hands in Sherlock’s hair and kissing his forehead. “It’s so hard to resist, now that we’re… here. I know we have to focus, though. Case first.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Sherlock says, touching his tongue to his lower lip, trying to taste John there. “Both in equal measure, but each in its place.” 

John nods, then kisses him again, his lips closed. It lasts for a long moment, and then he backs away again. “Agreed,” he says. “We’ve got to find these men. Let’s call Lestrade and see where he’s got with his end of the investigation.” 

Sherlock nods, too. “Yes. Okay.” 

*** 

The crowd is milling through the lobby, the forty-something guests and assorted resident staff members surging into the dining room for dinner. Sherlock and John are talking about what they ordered in normal tones of voice. Sherlock glances casually around, then sees Scott edging through the crowd toward the front doors. He looks for Paul next, but doesn’t see him. This makes him feel uneasy. His phone buzzes. It’s Mycroft. _Taxi’s there._ Sherlock texts Scott. _Taxi’s here. Go!_ Ten seconds later, he peripherally catches the door opening and sees Scott’s dark head slipping through it. A moment later his response comes. _In the taxi, on the motorway._

Sherlock keeps his phone low and shows it to John, who exhales audibly in relief. “Yeah, I’m glad I ordered the Porterhouse,” he says, his voice just a little louder than it needs to be, as though competing with the crowd noise. “I was in the mood for red meat today.” 

“Mmm. We should order a bottle of wine,” Sherlock says, letting his voice carry equally. “A shiraz, do you think?” 

“Sure, if you don’t think that’s too heavy for your pad sew,” John says. His voice is very casual, but his hand finds Sherlock’s and he laces their fingers together again, and in spite of himself, Sherlock’s heart soars. 

Nevertheless, dinner is slightly tense, at least for him, and he can sense John’s tension beside him. They eat and chat with Andrew, Avi, Justin, and Thom, who all joined their table for the meal. The fire is roaring in the central fireplace and Sherlock glances subtly around at the staff members present and wonders which of them are murderers and sex trade traffickers. He lifts mouthfuls of thick rice noodles and succulent shrimp to his mouth and also wonders absently, as John chats to Avi on his other side, whether they’ll have a chance to get back to what Scott interrupted earlier. The very thought of it makes his stomach flutter in anticipation and, thinking of their third night of sharing a bed, no small amount of nerves. Perhaps there won’t even be an opportunity for that. We’ll see, Sherlock tells himself silently, then stirs when John says his name and draws him back into the conversation. 

They drink the shiraz, finishing it as coffee is served with dessert, which is chocolate mousse torte layered with rich ganache in Sherlock’s case and lemon blueberry cheesecake in John’s. Sherlock subtly checks his phone when it buzzes at twenty minutes to seven. Scott has texted _I’m in the helicopter. Thanks again for this! I’ll let you know when I’m at the safehouse._ Immediately following is a text from Mycroft: _He’s in the helicopter._ He’ll show John later, he thinks, stowing his phone just as Andrew asks them if they’re coming to the pub quiz scheduled for the evening’s activity. John defers to Sherlock, who clears his throat. “Er, no, I’m afraid not,” he says apologetically. “We had our session with Margaret today. We, er, we’ve just realised that we still have a lot to talk about and we decided before dinner to skip the festivities tonight to do it while it’s still fresh. I mean, it’s the reason we’re here.” 

This gets them a round of nods. “Absolutely,” Justin says. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. She’s wonderful, isn’t she? Margaret, I mean.” 

“You’ve seen her already?” John asks, tipping cream from a small pitcher into his coffee. 

Justin nods. “Yeah, we had the late afternoon session, after you two. She said you’d been there.” 

“She definitely knows what she’s doing,” Sherlock says briskly, and this gets him a secretive smile from John. 

“She knows all the right questions to ask, and when you haven’t said everything,” Thom says. He leans over and kisses Justin on the cheek. “She helped us a lot. We’ve asked to see her again tomorrow or the day after, too, just to sort out a few other things. Might as well, right? Given what we’ve all paid to be here?” 

“It’s worth every penny in my opinion,” Andrew says, examining a spoonful of tiramisu with a satisfied look on his face. 

Avi elbows him. “You mean that about more than just the food, I assume…” 

Andrew smiles and leans over and kisses him, right there in front of everyone, and Sherlock’s chest gives another squeeze of anticipation. However, they’ve got to call Mycroft and see where the search for Jeremy is, whether Scott gets to the safehouse unscathed, and figure out who is behind this. 

John takes his hand again as they walk back to the room and they don’t talk, but it’s a companionable silence. Sherlock wonders whether John is rather wishing they didn’t have a case on, too. 

Mycroft answers on the first ring. “Slow eaters,” he says critically. 

“Skip to the update,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. 

Mycroft doesn’t miss a beat. “My contacts in Europe and Asia are confirming suspected ties to a source in the UK with this trafficking ring. Interpol has someone who managed to escape only because they thought he was dead after a beating. Unfortunately the beating was real enough and it’s addled his wits, so it’s somewhat unreliable testimony. On top of which, it seems he may have been subjected to some form of brainwashing, which is often typical of these trafficking rings. The man in question has an English accent but doesn’t know his own last name. His first name is William and Lestrade is running down guest lists from Ravine Valley from the past five years. Of course, there would be a number of other suppliers as well, so he could have come from anywhere.” 

“All right,” Sherlock says. “What else?” 

“Scott Murray arrived at the safehouse without incident,” Mycroft informs him, sounding bored. “He’s been provided for and has around-the-clock guards.” 

John nods, standing a metre away, is listening intently. “Good,” he says, sounding satisfied. 

“Where is Lestrade at with his investigation?” Sherlock wants to know. “Does he need help?” 

“He always needs help,” Mycroft says dryly. “Hence your general existence. It’s mostly cold cases, but he has already emailed you his findings, I believe.” He pauses for a moment. “This is good, Sherlock. This connection to Ravine Valley has already advanced the sex trafficking case. My people are also trying to remotely reactivate Jeremy Davidson’s mobile phone, which shows having been switched off at 12:43am on the night of his disappearance. So far they’ve had no luck but apparently it also depends on being within range of a tower. His abductors could be keeping to rural, remote areas as they transport him. My contacts suggest that they would move him slowly, in stages, the better to avoid detection. When we have him, I’ll let you know.” 

“Good,” Sherlock says. He pauses. “What should we do? Should we come back to London?” He feels a twinge of regret as he says it; he was counting on having at least tonight here with John. But Mycroft surprises him. 

“No,” he says. “I still need someone on the ground there. See if you can get into any of the offices. Tomorrow, when it’s light, look for a possible method of egress. They wouldn’t have removed Davidson through the main doors.” 

“John has a theory on that score,” Sherlock tells him. 

“Good. Check it out,” Mycroft instructs. “Above all, do not break your cover. We may need to keep you in place for a second week if we don’t solve this before your scheduled departure on Sunday. Investigate, but _quietly_. If you find you can’t get anywhere with that, then help Lestrade with the cold cases from there.” 

“Understood.” Sherlock hangs up. John looks at him and snickers. Sherlock looks over at him. “What?” he asks, feeling his pulse increase very slightly just from looking at John. 

“You love hanging up on him,” John says, still amused. “Have you noticed that you always do that? End the call before he can? It’s petty, and I love it.” 

Sherlock smiles. “It is, and that’s why I do it. He hates it.” 

John smiles back, and for a moment, Sherlock is strongly – dizzyingly – tempted to put the case aside entirely and go to him, but then John speaks and breaks the spell. “So, what should we tackle first? The missing persons? Check out the offices while everyone’s at the pub quiz? I’m rather worried that they have cameras. It could be better to go while it’s day time and we can feign being lost or something.” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he says. He looks at his laptop. Work first. Focus. “In that case, the cold cases.” 

John nods, too, and comes to sit down at the table, opening his own laptop. 

Sherlock pulls out his chair, and his phone buzzes. “Lestrade,” he says into it. “What have you got?” 

*** 

Nearly three hours later, John rakes his hand through his hair and stretches. They’ve got a list of six potential abductees from Ravine Valley so far, all of whom went missing either during or directly after their stay, along with their partners. They’ve discussed whether to consider the partners as potential trafficking victims or murder victims, and Lestrade eventually said they wouldn’t rule anything out. It’s been a gruelling evening, and on top of that, it’s proven more of a strain than Sherlock expected to keep his focus concentrated strictly on the case, and he’s had enough of it for the time being. 

He gets up and walks over to the window, opening it to breathe in the cool, fresh air. John comes over to stand beside him, cupping his hands around his eyes to see past his own reflection. Sherlock looks at him and feels a wave of affection so potent it nearly causes his knees to give way. He doesn’t know what to say, though, how to put it into words, which words to use. 

“It’s so peaceful out there,” John observes. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, he moves his hands and looks at him. “You know,” he says, “I was very glad when Mycroft said we should stay. I don’t want to leave yet. Not after what happened today, between us.” 

Sherlock feels himself nod. “John…” he says, slowly, as though he’s caught in a dream. His body rotates itself to face John of its own accord. 

John closes the window and pulls the curtains shut with deliberate care, then turns back to face him. “We got interrupted earlier,” he says, his voice low and rather sensual. “I was nowhere near finished kissing you.” 

The wall Sherlock managed to build between this and the work fades into nothing. He wants it so badly he can almost taste it. “Please,” he gets out on an exhalation, and John takes his face and pulls it gently to his own. Their lips meet, and Sherlock forgets everything but John’s mouth. It starts slowly, their lips closed, but accelerates rapidly, both of them needing more. Sherlock puts his arms around John, one over his shoulder and one around his back and he feels John melt into the embrace, his arms circling Sherlock tightly. Their mouths are open now, tongues tangling together, breath gusting out of their noses, their torsos pressed together. They kiss and kiss and no one interrupts it to talk. Nothing needs to be said just now. They said all of the big things earlier. 

After a longish while, John pulls back and says, his eyes flicking up to Sherlock’s, “All evening… this is all I wanted to be doing with you. Just this. Just us. I know that the case has to come first – there are lives on the line. But now – ”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and bends to put their mouths together again, again. It’s faster now, hungrier, their hands gripping one another. Kissing John is the best thing he’s ever felt. The sensation of it is washing through his frame and turning the marrow in his bones to lava. Every cell of his being wants this more than anything he’s ever wanted. He hears himself make a low sound in his throat and presses closer still, hands stroking over John’s back and into his hair. John is doing the same, and every place he touches Sherlock sets his skin ablaze, even through his shirt. He lifts his mouth from John’s and lets himself go, kissing John’s jawline, his neck, his throat, feeling John’s breath rasp through his skin as he does. 

“God, Sherlock…” John breathes, one of his hands balling in Sherlock’s hair and pulling just a little, and it sends sparks down Sherlock’s spine and a prickling flush of desire ripples throughout his frame and settles in his genitals with heat. John pulls his face back up and kisses him hard, their mouths biting at each other’s, no restraints between them now. 

Sherlock wants even more, to touch John everywhere, be touched by him. He’s breathing quickly but doesn’t know how to ask or what he wants, exactly. “John – ” he says, into John’s neck, and John understands. 

He pulls back a little so that they can look into each other’s eyes. “Should we… get ready for bed?” he asks, the question both polite and arch. Hinting, but not demanding, not pushing for it. Suggesting the brief separation, perhaps to let Sherlock get himself together a little. 

Sherlock swallows. He can’t tell whether he wants more to keep going or if he needs the short pause, but he doesn’t want to disagree. He nods and touches his tongue to his lower lip. “Yes. Okay.” 

“I’ll go first, in the loo,” John says. “I’ll be quick.” 

Sherlock nods again. “Okay.” Then, as John detaches himself, he adds, “Hurry.” 

John smiles at him. “Definitely,” he says, heading into the bathroom. 

Sherlock rapidly strips down to his underwear and pulls on his pyjama t-shirt, then plugs in their devices to charge. John comes out of the bathroom in his own pyjamas a moment later and smiles at him. 

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll be – here.” He nods at the bed. 

Sherlock makes an unintelligible sound meant to express agreement and hastens into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, checks his shaving job, relieves himself with a bit of difficulty, given his partial erection, then washes his face and hands, and exits the bathroom. 

John has dimmed the lights except for the two lamps on their night tables. He’s lying on his side in bed, head propped up on one elbow, the blankets on Sherlock’s side of the bed pulled back. He meets Sherlock’s eyes and smiles, patting the bed in invitation. “Come here,” he says, and Sherlock moves toward him as though dazed by a mirage in the desert. For a split second, he almost wonders if he’s hallucinating, yet he can still feel the imprint of John’s mouth on his own. 

He climbs into bed and slides over to John, who puts a hand on his side and bends forward to kiss him again, and everything slides back to where it was a few minutes earlier. They lie together, arms around each other, facing one another on their sides, kissing as deeply and passionately as Sherlock knows how, and it’s absolutely phenomenal. There’s no rush to it, no sense of needing to stop kissing and start something else. There’s time to just do this, be together, and Sherlock loves it. His body has never felt as alive as it does at this moment, aware of John’s in every single way possible. He rubs John’s back and puts his hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin directly. After a bit, he breaks off the kiss long enough to ask, “Take this off?” 

John makes a fervent sound of agreement. “You too,” he says, and they both wrestle off their shirts. John pulls him close again and it’s suddenly even more evident now, lying together in their underwear this way, that they’re very nearly naked in bed together. John looks into his eyes, searching them. He kisses Sherlock for a long moment, then says, his voice low, “I just want to say – nothing needs to happen now. I mean, we can just – do this all night. I don’t care. The only thing I want is to be with you in some way. There’s no need to rush into anything else. We’ve got time, now that we’ve finally got onto the same page.” 

Sherlock blinks and licks his lips. “It was doubly ironic this morning, wasn’t it? Given that not only have we never, but I’ve never… done anything like this before.” 

John searches his eyes again. “Never?” he asks. “Not even Irene?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Never. It was you I wanted, you know.” 

“Even then?” John asks, and when Sherlock nods, he says, “It wouldn’t change anything now, you know. I was so jealous of her. But I mean that. It wouldn’t change a damned thing between us if you had, Sherlock. I’m just happy that we’re finally here.” 

“So I am,” Sherlock says. He cups John’s face with one hand. “So kiss me. Please.” 

John doesn’t hesitate, kissing him with strength, and the feel of his body, warm along the length of Sherlock’s, is dizzying. They’re both pressed together, John making small sounds in his throat, both of them breathing heavily. Sherlock hooks a leg around John’s for better leverage, and discovers in the process that John is as hard as he is. The knowledge goes directly into his penis, stiffening it further still. John is touching his back, rubbing over it, and suddenly he stills, lifting his mouth from Sherlock’s. Horrified realisation comes over his face. “Your scars,” he says, his voice unsteady. “I can feel them. Sherlock – ”

“Please,” Sherlock interrupts. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not – I want you to touch me. _Please_.” 

“Okay. Yes,” John breathes, and pulls Sherlock more tightly into his arms. 

Sherlock is almost panting, clutching John to himself. He lets his hand drift down and touches John’s arse, his hand cupping it, then lets go, almost abashed at himself, but John makes a sound of negation. 

“No – please, Sher – if you want, then please! Do whatever you want,” he says, reaching down to give Sherlock’s arse a squeeze through his underwear. “Just – follow your instincts. What your heart and body want. I promise, everything is going to be okay with me. We can do absolutely anything you want.” 

The squeeze sends a shuddering wave of desire through Sherlock’s frame and he puts his leg around John’s hips again, and inadvertently turns John onto his back, Sherlock on top of him, bringing their genitals into full contact at last. It feels indecently good and Sherlock hears himself make a ragged sound almost like a moan. John echoes it and they kiss again, fiercely. John puts both hands on Sherlock’s arse and grips it tightly, and Sherlock feels himself seep out a spot of liquid in response. He pants into John’s face and kisses his throat again. 

They’re rubbing against each other through their underwear now, and it feels so good that Sherlock can hardly breathe, pleasure swimming through his veins in a better high than he’s ever experienced before. John hooks his thumb into the waistband of his underwear and lets it snap lightly against his skin. “Get these off,” he requests, and Sherlock can only make a sound of frantic agreement. They separate briefly to get out of bed and shed the last remaining layer between them, and John opens the drawer of his night table and makes a quick selection. They face each other across the bed for a moment, Sherlock’s eyes devouring John’s gorgeously nude form, the hardness of his penis, gleaming with wetness at the head, and John’s eyes rake down the length of his body, too. “Jesus,” he says, his tone somewhere between incredulity and reverence. “You are so, so beautiful, Sherlock.” He gets back into bed, pushing the blankets aside entirely now. “Come back here.” 

Sherlock crawls across the bed and lets John pull him back on top of him and they kiss, and the intimacy of touching this way, nothing separating them now, is exquisite. They kiss for a bit, slowly, savouring the new sensations, their penises rubbing together between them, bodies touching absolutely everywhere. John gets a palmful of lubricant out of the tube he chose and rubs it over them both and Sherlock makes such a loud sound that it alarms him. He pushes himself against John, seeking all the friction he can get, desperate for it, and John moves his hand in favour of putting both on Sherlock’s arse, steadying their rhythm as Sherlock thrusts against him. They’re both panting too hard to kiss now, but it’s okay – Sherlock goes and goes, pleasure curling into every recess of his body. John is moaning without restraint, cursing and saying his name along with extremely vocal affirmations of everything that Sherlock is doing. They’re both moving, John lifting to thrust back against him, but then the desperation spikes, Sherlock’s voice an octave higher than it was, and John gets his hand around both their penises and grips, jerking his fist over their erections. It feels so intensely good that Sherlock can't breathe. His vision blurs for a second and then his body spasms violently and he comes harder than he ever has in his life before this very moment, pumping out jets of hot, wet release. He can’t stop coming, his testicles emptying themselves onto John’s stomach and chest, and John’s voice is high and breathy now. Sherlock is still coming when John’s body jerks and he starts, too, the spurt of his release hitting Sherlock in the stomach, and the sound he makes is low and primal and makes Sherlock’s body spasm one more time. 

His limbs give way and he lowers himself onto John, turning his face into John’s neck to pant there, his hands loosely holding John by the shoulders. His entire body is trembling with the aftershocks of the most powerful orgasm he’s ever had, and he feels closer to John than he knew it was possible for two people to feel. He can’t speak. John is panting, too, both hands loosely stroking down Sherlock’s back and arse, their penises softening next to one another, over-sensitive now. There is a sticky mess between them and Sherlock doesn’t care. 

After a little, John lifts Sherlock’s face and they kiss, and it’s slow and sensual and incredible. When it eases off, Sherlock puts his face back where it was and digs his arms beneath John to hold him as tightly as he can, and John’s arms are just as tight around his back. This is it, Sherlock thinks blurrily. They’ve crossed the threshold now. They are lovers, and no one can deny it or take it away from them, not even they, themselves. It’s not a distant, unrealistic hypothetical. Their combined DNA is the evidence, there on their very skin. 

“I love you,” he says. He didn’t quite mean to; it said itself. But John’s arms grow tighter still. 

“I love you, too,” he says in return, a bit choked, and Sherlock closes his eyes and drowns in it. 

*** 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when they finally stir. John says he’s going to see about getting a flannel and promises to come right back. He brings two flannels and they clean up a bit and rearrange themselves on their sides, facing each other again. 

“It’s hard to believe this is happening,” Sherlock says, letting his internal wonder at it be voiced. 

John takes his hand and links their fingers together again. “I know,” he says, his voice more relaxed and gentle than Sherlock has ever heard it before. “It’s amazing how bad we let it get, when it could have been this all along, maybe.” 

Sherlock pulls their joint hands to his lips and kisses John’s fingers. “We were rather astoundingly bad at understanding one another,” he allows. “I’m still sorry.” 

John shakes his head. “You wouldn’t let me keep dragging the apologies out before, so you don’t get to, either.” 

Sherlock accepts this with a smile. After a moment, the smile fades. “Can I ask you something?” he asks. 

“Of course,” John says. “Anything.”

Sherlock hesitates. “You might not like it,” he warns, thinking of the way John’s face blanched and how he got up and left the room when Margaret said the same thing earlier. 

John shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. You have the right to know anything. I’m giving you access, Sherlock. Forever.” 

Sherlock studies him, searching John’s golden-lashed eyes. “Would you still have married Mary if you had known about the snipers?” 

John swallows, but he doesn’t pull his hand away or leave. “I don’t know,” he says, looking down between them. He shakes his head. “Probably not.” His eyes come back up to Sherlock’s. “Can I ask you something?” 

Sherlock nods slowly, apprehensive. “Go ahead.” 

“Did you already feel this way then?” John asks. “When you came back? I know you said before, about wanting this even when Irene was first around, but – did you really? For all that time?” 

Sherlock nods, looking down at where his thumb is rubbing over John’s thumbnail. “It took me awhile to recognise it for what it was,” he admits. “But you always came first. I knew that. No one else mattered. I knew how important you had become to me when I realised you’d been kidnapped by the Black Lotus. And again when Moriarty took you.” 

It’s John’s turn to kiss their interwoven fingers. “Tell me when you first knew that you loved me,” he requests. 

Sherlock gives half a smile. “When I saw you at the restaurant,” he says. “The Landmark. When I first came back. Mycroft had already told me about Mary, that you’d bought a ring, but somehow I thought that just wouldn’t matter, that you and I would always come first for both of us.” He hesitates, then adds, “It’s why I pulled that ridiculous French waiter stunt, you know. I got nervous. I saw you sitting there, and suddenly it seemed like a terrible idea to just walk over to you out of the blue. I didn’t think any of it through.” 

John shakes his head. “I get that,” he says softly. “It’s so odd, Sherlock. I’ve never had more conflicted feelings in my life. I was so, so angry with you, and at the same time, so incredibly happy that you were still alive. I couldn’t even let myself see how much, because it was too dangerous. I’d already proposed, she’d said yes, more or less, and I’d told myself that I couldn’t trust you. That you were my best friend, but that I was safer and better off with Mary, and that you’d never feel this way or want this, anyway. But it was always you, you know.” 

Sherlock swallows. “Was it?” he asks plainly, searching John’s eyes again. “I mean… you went back to her… I know we talked about all of this when you came home, but – ”

“I went back for Rosie,” John says, the same pain that always comes into his eyes when talking about Rosie appearing there again now. “That’s what I told you six months ago and it’s still true. It wasn’t about Mary. And for the record, even thinking that you had let me grieve for no good reason, and that you’d killed Magnussen without thinking it through and that the same thing was going to happen all over again, with you leaving me behind, and even though I selfishly, stupidly let myself think that you were responsible for my entire life falling apart there, I _still_ came home at the end of the day. I meant every word of what I said at our first circle meeting. You were there for me like a rock. I only just finally saw that you always have been. None of the things I saw on the surface were the truth. You’ve done nothing but save me, over and over and over and over again since the day we met, and I haven’t deserved you by half. I still don’t.” 

His voice has grown fierce, and Sherlock wants to kiss away the lines in his forehead. “Stop,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t help anything. I didn’t tell you enough. I didn’t let you in enough. And you’ve saved me, too, more times than I’ve counted.” 

“I still think that the balance is decidedly in your favour,” John insists. 

“Fuck the balance,” Sherlock says. “It just doesn’t matter any more.” He leans over and puts his mouth to John’s. 

John kisses back deeply, pulling his fingers out of Sherlock’s to put his arm around Sherlock’s back instead. It goes on for a long time, passionate and as full of need as before. After several long, glorious minutes of this, John pulls away. “I’ve just had a brilliant idea,” he says, smiling into Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Oh?” Sherlock is still distracted by the kiss itself. “What’s that?” 

“Just a second,” John tells him, rolling away and getting out of bed. He goes around it and crosses to the small fridge, and removes one of their three bottles of champagne. “Seems like the right occasion for this,” he says, and Sherlock laughs, watching John’s lithe, nude form with wonder he can’t manage to keep off his face. John peels off the foil and the wire cage, then gently eases the cork out of the bottle. He pours two brimming glasses of fizzing champagne and brings them over to Sherlock. “Hold mine for a sec,” he says, and goes back for something else which, it turns out, is the basket of chocolate-dipped strawberries. He goes back around the bed, sets the berries between them, and takes his glass back from Sherlock. “Thanks,” he says. He lifts it. “To us,” he says. “Finally getting it together.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Sherlock says, and their clink glasses and drink. The champagne is good, high quality and expensive, and the fine bubbles fizz against the inside of his mouth. “I think you’re only supposed to fill the glasses halfway,” he says, though it’s not a complaint. 

“I’m really not in a glass half-empty mood tonight,” John says, sounding smug, and Sherlock laughs. 

“Are we supposed to feed each other these berries?” he asks. “Is that how it works?”

“Yes,” John says decidedly. “The general idea here is to gorge ourselves on fruit and chocolate and expensive wine until we’re half-drunk and completely raring to go again. Sound good to you?” 

“Sounds perfect,” Sherlock says, with satisfaction, and it is. 

*** 

He wakes with a guilty start because his arm is around John firmly, his entire body pressed up to John’s from behind him, but then he remembers everything and relaxes. A foolish, ridiculous smile spreads itself unstoppably over his face, his eyes still closed, thinking about the previous night. They’d emptied the champagne bottle and reduced most of the strawberries to a heap of green crowns, licking and sucking at each other’s fingers as they fed each other, until Sherlock had exhaled deeply and said, “Get these things away from me!” John had grinned, moved the last few berries to the night table, then reached for the lubricant and rolled Sherlock onto his back. He’d experimented between just thrusting against him the way Sherlock had earlier, and jerking them off jointly. Sherlock had been a little buzzed from the champagne, and that served to wash his memory of this in golden sensation. They’d come after several minutes of sweaty, gasping, rocking together, then lain together, breathing hard, and fallen asleep fairly soon after. 

Now it’s Thursday, Day 4 of the program. Scott is safe in London. Jeremy is still missing, but other people have been tasked with finding him. Mycroft is at the helm. For once, Sherlock is entirely glad to have had his meddling brother take over so completely. They’re to keep their cover in place, which essentially means going along with the program and not getting caught out. He can live with that. 

John stirs and yawns. “You awake?” he asks. 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock responds sleepily, still smiling. 

“I know at least one part of you is,” John says, with a wicked chuckle. He twists around and simultaneously kisses Sherlock and reaches for his penis. Sherlock groans into the kiss and reaches for John in turn. The kiss stretches out until they’re breathing too hard, panting into each other’s faces as their hands work, rubbing and pulling. 

“Where’s the – ” Sherlock doesn’t get a chance to finish his question; John is already reaching behind him to grab for the lubrication. 

He smears it hurriedly onto them both, making Sherlock make a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making, and then John’s hand is back. He rubs Sherlock’s testicles and just behind and Sherlock makes that sound again, too far gone to be embarrassed by it. He leans forward and kisses John’s neck wetly, sinking his teeth into the skin there, and John breathes out a heartfelt curse. He gets a leg around Sherlock’s and lines up their erections together and it’s a joint effort now, their fingers tangled together. John comes first this time, the hot spurt of his release landing on Sherlock’s penis and abdomen, which makes him moan again, and then it’s his turn – John’s fist is flying over him, his back arches, and – his vision goes white for several seconds as pleasure arcs through his frame like electricity, flooding out his penis in uncontrollable spasms. 

When he opens his eyes several minutes later, John is kissing his forehead, his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, tugging at his sleep-mussed curls. Sherlock turns his face upward and kisses him, their legs twined together. His alarm goes off a moment later and John gives a huff of laughter. 

“Time to wake up,” he says. He kisses Sherlock again. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go see what showering in that space age shower is like together.” 

This makes the prospect of getting up vastly more appealing. “All right,” Sherlock says. He pushes the blankets aside and gets up with more enthusiasm about a coming day than he’s ever had before. 

*** 

They arrive at breakfast hand-in-hand and join Andrew and Avi at their table. Andrew raises his eyebrows. “What’s this, then?” he asks, nodding at their hands. “Never seen the two of you looking so touchy-feely before. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of you do anything physical, apart from that measly little kiss you gave us back on Tuesday!” 

“Yeah, well, it happens,” John retorts, but looks rather pleased about the whole thing, anyway. 

Avi smiles at them. “Good night, was it?” 

Sherlock tries not to smile and fails. “You could say that,” he says, concentrating on filling his and John’s cups with tea. 

“Aha! Therapy’s working, then,” Andrew says, sounding triumphant. 

John smiles. “You could say that, too,” he says, his voice very controlled, but there’s a great deal of suppressed satisfaction that he’s just barely keeping under wraps, Sherlock gleans. 

Two servers come and bring all four of their meals at once. Sherlock has no memory of what he ordered on their card yesterday, but apparently it was smoked trout with scrambled eggs made with crème fraiche and spring onions with a freshly-baked baguette on the side. John ordered the same thing, he sees, and somehow this pleases him to no end. He feels like a giddy adolescent, as though there must be arrows pointing at the two of them, announcing their newfound happiness to the entire world. 

Brad notices, too, when he and Doug arrive for breakfast. “Ten quid says the two of you had a pretty solid shag last night,” he says, a bit cryptically, before their coffee has even been served. “Guess that was worth missing the pub quiz for, then.” 

Sherlock looks at John, who looks back at him. “Mmm,” Sherlock says in vague affirmation, just barely managing to keep his expression neutral. Beside him, John takes a long drink of tea. 

Brad grins. “Don’t give us the juicy details, then. Suit yourselves. Only you’ve got the glow, you know what I mean?” 

“It’s rather sickeningly nice,” Doug adds, grinning at them as their coffee is served. 

John smiles back at them. “Thanks,” is all he says, but he squeezes Sherlock’s hand that he’s still holding, resting on his right thigh. Sherlock squeezes back and continues cutting his food with the side of his fork. It doesn’t matter. His need to be touching John at all times is overwhelming at the moment. He knows the science behind it, and it doesn’t make it any less potent. Or wonderful. Anyone who wants to smirk can do so at will; he simply does not care. 

They have a forty-five minute break after breakfast, and use it to wander casually into the back offices, checking doors, particularly Lucas Brennan’s and Paul’s. They’re all locked, and oddly, no one is around. “Perhaps they’re all in a staff meeting or something,” Sherlock says. “I’d pick a lock, but that would be asking for trouble. What we need is for Lestrade to find enough evidence to get a warrant, and then we’d have access to their security system…”

“Sherlock – ” John says urgently, and Sherlock hears it: footsteps. They’re at the end of a corridor, no way out but the way they came in. John takes him by the shoulders and backs him into the nearest wall, kissing him soundly. Sherlock cottons on instantly and kisses back, which is rather nice, anyway. 

The footsteps stop. “Can I help you gentlemen?” 

It’s the measured tones of Lucas Brennan, president of Ravine Valley. Sherlock and John break apart, and John takes care to look particularly flustered. “Oh! Sorry!” he says. “We were just – looking for someone, and we, er, we got – distracted, you could say.” 

Lucas eyes them both, then walks forward slowly. “Who were you looking for?” he asks evenly, and Sherlock detects his suspicion. 

He clears his throat. “Kyle,” he says. “But he wasn’t at his desk and neither was Paul, so we thought we’d try back here. We didn’t find anyone, and then… er, we got distracted, as John said.” 

Lucas just stands there, absorbing this without any expression whatsoever. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, as though weighing the name. “As it happens, I was looking for you. Odd that I should find you back here, but since we’re both here, I wondered if you might have five minutes you could spare me. I’d like a word.” 

Sherlock avoids looking at John. “Of course,” he says neutrally. He moves past John, then looks back and says, “I’ll see you at the circle meeting, if not before.” 

John nods and doesn’t say anything. Lucas turns and walks briskly away in the direction of his office. Sherlock follows him. 

Once they’re inside, Lucas sits down and beckons Sherlock to do the same. He fits his fingers together in a thoughtful pose, then says, “So the great Sherlock Holmes needs relationship therapy. Who would have thought?” 

Sherlock blinks. “Every relationship occasionally needs help,” he says evenly. “Isn’t that what all of your staff and promotional materials say?” 

Lucas doesn’t smile. “Most relationships do,” he agrees. “I didn’t think that the ‘greatest crime-solving duo of our time’ was one of them, however.” 

The quote is from the _Times_ two months ago, after a particularly high-profile art theft that they foiled. Sherlock refuses to be baited. “Everyone knows that what goes on in public is very different than what goes on behind closed doors,” he says politely. “John and I have had our issues. As I’m sure Todd could tell you based on our circle meetings.” 

“Todd doesn’t divulge what goes on in those,” Lucas says, frowning. “He takes client confidentiality extremely seriously, as he should.” He gazes at Sherlock a moment longer, then says, “Mr Holmes, I’ll be frank with you. From time to time, we get a couple in here with issues beyond our ability to repair within the week to three weeks that most people stay with us. Sometimes those problems become so fraught that we’re unable to persuade the couple in question to stick out the time they committed to. One or both men leave partway through the week. We’ve had a disappearance of this nature this week, from your own group. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now: Jeremy Davidson and Scott Murray. Jeremy left first, then – presumably because of that – Scott went the next day. Neither one checked out, though their belongings are gone. What do you know about this?” 

Sherlock does not react to this lie; he knows for a fact that Jeremy did not have the chance to take his belongings, and with the exceptions of his phone and Jeremy’s watch, Scott left without taking any of his, either. “They were having some problems,” he says evenly. 

Lucas cocks an ear at him. “What sort of problems? I ask because we’re constantly trying to improve our ability to read couples and their needs, so that we can provide better and more thorough counselling services. You know that this is a successful business we run here. I prefer the therapy to be successful as well.” 

The lie about having packed their belongings makes Sherlock wary. “Infidelity,” he says briefly. “If that’s not a breach of confidentiality as a member of their group. I’m not sure how much I should disclose regarding what they shared in therapy.” 

His smooth line makes Lucas frown a little. “Mr Holmes, I assure you, we’re only trying to help. The fact is that I’ve already looked into their whereabouts. From what we’ve gathered, it would seem that Jeremy left Scott. I have no idea where he would have gone, in that case. However, I fully expected that Scott would go back to their shared residence. He has not.” 

Sherlock thinks briefly of Scott and the safehouse and keeps his face utterly devoid of expression. “Well, if a six-year relationship has just ended, he must be devastated, particularly if Jeremy walked out on him during their stay here, where they came to work on their problems,” he points out. “Perhaps he’s gone to stay with friends, or perhaps his parents. I really don’t know him all that well.” 

Lucas leans forward, slightly menacing. “And yet, you’ve sat with him at meals, have been seen socialising with him, and have shared group therapy sessions,” he says. 

“Two of the latter,” Sherlock responds, still very calm. “They didn’t come to yesterday morning’s session. I understood that Scott was hungover, or had contracted a flu virus.” 

“You also understand human nature and motivation,” Lucas continues, as though he hasn’t spoken. 

“Where criminal intent is involved,” Sherlock agrees. “That’s not the case here, surely. You’re not suggesting that Scott murdered Jeremy, I hope?” 

Lucas eyes him. “No, of course not,” he says. “I just thought that perhaps you might have some insight.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m in vacation mode. I haven’t been making professional-level observations this week. I’m here to work on my relationship with John. I know that as far as the public is concerned, our work would appear to be the central focus of our life, but the fact is that he, himself, is central to my life and being. It was worth taking the time off to work on resolving some of our issues here.” 

Lucas surveys him thoughtfully. “I see,” he says. “Well, based on the little demonstration I just saw, it seems to be working. Thank you for your time.” 

He extends a hand. Sherlock looks at it, then shakes it. Lucas’ hand is cold and very strong. He lets go as quickly as he can without seeming overtly rude about it, and gets himself away. 

He finds John loitering around the front desk, chatting with Kyle. John smiles at him, a bit of tension around his eyes, and Kyle turns and sees him. “Sherlock!” he says. “I just got a pop-up message from Lucas saying that you were looking for me! What can I do for you?” 

Sherlock makes eye contact with John, then says, “We both were, actually. Two questions: first, we noticed that there are trails to hike down to the lake, and our package materials say that it’s possible to swim there. We just wondered how long that particular hike is.” 

“It’s on the long side,” Kyle warns. “About an hour, in fact, but it’s nice hiking and not that steep when you’re coming back up.” 

Sherlock lowers his voice and leans over the desk a little. “Are there any other access points?” he asks. “Any roads in and out of there? It’s just that we were thinking about going _au naturel_ , if you catch my drift, but we’d rather not be surprised by anyone else…” 

Kyle grins. “Fair enough,” he says. “No, there’s an access road, but it’s very rarely used. Our deliveries all come in by the main doors here, or are carried around to the kitchen door. The pass in the hills and the length of the hike would make carrying anything large in and out a bit tedious. You can take a cart if you really need to, but the vehicle access point only starts after you’ve hiked down fifteen minutes. You’ll see the road if you head down there. Were you thinking of going today?” 

“Maybe,” Sherlock says vaguely. “We hadn’t really discussed the specifics; we’re just exploring our options here. Trying to make the most of our time.” 

“Right, of course,” Kyle says. He smiles warmly. “And your other question?” 

Sherlock smiles back and puts as much charm into it as he can. “We wondered if we could have another couples massage,” he says, and John comes forward and puts an arm around his waist. 

“Of course!” Kyle says. “The masseurs are great, aren’t they? It’s my favourite thing to do when I have an afternoon or day off.” 

“With your partner?” John asks, a little too innocently. 

Kyle shakes his head. “I wish. I broke up with mine almost a year ago. Anyway, they’re all booked for today, but I could get you in tomorrow afternoon at two, with the jacuzzi after. Would that suit you?” 

“That’s perfect,” Sherlock says. “Thank you. And could we have a bottle of sauvignon blanc in the jacuzzi?” 

“Absolutely,” Kyle says, smiling at them both. “I’ll have it on ice and waiting.” He checks the time. “You’ve got five minutes before your circle meeting. Don’t let me keep you. And if you need anything for the hike down, if you decide to go swimming – you know, towels, picnic supplies, bathing suits, water bottles, any of that – just come and see me before you go.” 

They nod and thank him and go to the common room. 

Justin and Thom are there already, yawning but sitting very close to each other on their loveseat. 

“We missed you two at breakfast,” John says lightly. 

“There was a thing after the pub quiz,” Justin says, yawning again. 

Sherlock feels his eyebrows rise. “In the steam room?” 

Justin nods. “It was sort of a free-for-all, honestly. It was weird, though. We got creeped out and left early, and had our own free-for-all in our room.” 

Thom elbows him and snickers. 

“What was so creepy about it, apart from the obvious?” John asks, a bit dryly. 

They look at each other. “This dude Paul kept coming on to us,” Justin says. “We were doing our own thing and just thought it could be fun to do it with company, you know? We’ve done that before. We weren’t advertising to being open to having people join us, but he just would not take no for an answer! And then he tried to give us drinks, but we honestly thought he was maybe trying to roofie us, so we left then. I don’t know what his boyfriend was doing, if he was there, but he’s a serious creep.” 

“Totally,” Thom adds. 

Sherlock frowns and decides not to mention that Paul is an employee, not a fellow guest. “Good choice, avoiding him,” he says, but what he’s thinking is that Paul very well may have tried to abduct them both. Three victims in one week would certainly be very ambitious. He feels a stirring of anger. “Stay away from him,” he adds. “He’s hit on John and I, too. I agree: he’s a creep.” 

Todd comes in then, followed by Andrew and Avi. Brad and Doug arrive shortly after, and Todd closes the door. “Morning everyone!” he says. “Today’s topic is sex, part two: hands on!” He looks around at the eight of them, grinning, then adds, “Don’t panic. We’re not going to be rimming each other here, just practising the things that tend to get overlooked. The intimate things. The basic ways we touch each other, how we kiss, hold hands, make eye contact. The things that make it making love, not just putting a dick in a hole or a hand or a mouth. So get comfortable, gents! Yesterday was just talk. Now we’re getting into the hands-on experience!” 

He has them all hold hands while he talks about some of the related theories. Sherlock looked at John when Todd gave this instruction and John reached unhesitatingly for his hand, linking their fingers together in what already feels like their most familiar way of touching one another. Todd looks around at everyone, nodding approvingly at them. “Nice,” he says. “Very nice, with the fingers. Good,” he adds to Brad and Doug. “That’s it. All right: on your feet, gents. For the next few minutes, we’re just going to face our partner and look into his eyes. That’s it. You don’t need to talk or touch, just make eye contact and hold it. Go ahead.” As everyone stands and gets into this position, he walks around in the middle of the circle. “Notice what else happens,” Todd says. “Do you look more into his left eye or his right? Does your breathing sync together? Can you tell what he’s thinking about? Are you uncomfortable? Can you think of the last time you made prolonged eye contact this way? Go ahead and gaze, and see what you observe.” 

He lapses into silence, the room filled with the sounds of eight people breathing and staring into their partners’ eyes. If they had done this yesterday, Sherlock would have felt uncomfortable. Now it feels intense, but not in a bad way. It’s silent in the room. He can hear John breathing, and himself, too. He thinks about Todd’s questions and wonders what John is thinking, but then John smiles, just a little, and it feels like reassurance. 

Todd walks around, observing. “Good,” he says to Brad and Doug. “Remember, though, it’s not a confrontation. Relax your stance a little, Brad. And your shoulders. Good.” Next he pauses by Justin and Thom. “I think we call that ‘eye-fucking’ where I’m from,” he says lightly. “This isn’t meant to be a seduction technique. Just look at each other. It’s not meant to be a challenge to your partner. Just – look.” He comes to them next and pauses, watching them for a moment or two. “That’s nice,” he says, sounding satisfied. “Very nice. Good openness, Sherlock. John, too. I haven’t seen the two of you look this unguarded so far. Great progress.” He moves on, speaking encouragingly to Andrew and Avi, then raises his voice for everyone. “Okay: let’s add something. Touch your partner’s face. In any way you like. It can be at the same time or you can take turns. As you like.”

Sherlock is still training his eyes on John’s. “What would you like?” he asks. 

“You choose,” John says, still smiling at him. 

It’s a relief to step closer and close the short distance between them. Sherlock puts his right hand on John’s cheek and traces the line of his cheekbone with his thumb, still gazing into his eyes. He can feel what touching John this way is doing to his own face, and finds himself unable to control it, his forehead contracting, brows pulling upward in the centre, feeling so much for John that he can’t disguise it. 

John raises his right hand and mirrors what Sherlock is doing and Sherlock turns his face into John’s palm, revelling in the small touch, and John’s fingers tighten. Todd approves of this, too, and tells them. 

“Now I have a line or two for you to say,” Todd says. “I know: we’re men. Getting emotional and expressing it is not generally our forte. Some of us in particular, yes? Some of you, if not all of you, will feel a bit silly saying these two things, but it doesn’t matter. The point is to do your best to say these things with sincerity. No sarcasm or turning it into a joke, no matter how hokey you feel in saying it, got it? First line: ‘You are so important to me.’ Everyone say that to your partner, in turns.” 

John’s eyes flick minutely from eye to eye, searching Sherlock’s face. “You are so important to me,” he says softly, and Sherlock can feel the weight of each word. 

His throat tightens. “You are so important to me,” he says back, his voice coming out low and uneven. The other men in the room murmur it back and forth. 

“Doug, try to make eye contact this time,” Todd encourages. “Go on, try it again.” 

They hear Doug say it, and peripherally Sherlock sees him touch the corner of his eye after. 

“Next line,” Todd announces. “‘I cherish you’.”

Sherlock feels self-conscious saying this to John in front of other people, but at this point, they all know each other pretty well. He thinks of telling John that he loved him last night and puts himself back into that place. It doesn’t matter that they’re not alone. No one else matters but John, whose eyes have turned almost heartbreakingly hopeful, waiting for him to say it. He touches his thumb to John’s lip. “I cherish you,” he says, his voice very low, and John closes his eyes for a moment, absorbing it. 

Then he opens them again, his eyes gone starry and practically radiant. “I cherish you, Sherlock,” he says, and his sincerity plunges the words so deeply into Sherlock that it’s almost painful. 

Todd is just standing in the middle of the room now, giving them all their space. “Good, gentlemen,” he says, sounding satisfied. “Now hug your partner. Really hold him. Let your muscles go soft and relax your spine and shoulders. Put your head down on his, if that works for you. Get as close as you want to. Try things. Figure out whose arms go where. Experiment with different positions.” 

Again, Sherlock feels genuine relief at this; being so close to John without being allowed to touch him with more than a single hand was almost torturous. John moves first, pulling Sherlock gently into his arms, one arm over his shoulder and the other around his back. Sherlock puts his face into John’s hair, then turns his head sideways to rest his cheek there. 

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” Todd praises, meaning them. “Don’t move! Look at this, everyone: this is what’s considered almost the ‘perfect’ embrace. One arm above and one below puts their hearts directly against each other’s. It’s such an intimate position, and then with their heads leaning together this way, they’re connected in multiple places for a really fantastic bond. The cherry on the sundae here is Sherlock’s hand on the back of John’s neck. That’s lovely, both sensual and gentle. Bravo, gentlemen.” He moves away. “Andrew and Avi, that’s really nice, too. Look here, folks.” Sherlock and John turn to look, and Todd explains. “Andrew is a little taller than Avi, so he’s got both of his arms around Avi’s shoulders, while Avi’s are around his back. With Avi’s head on Andrew’s shoulder and his face turned toward Andrew’s neck, that’s also quite sensual, giving Avi access to kiss Andrew there. As well, Andrew can put his head down on Avi’s if he wants to, for maximum contact. Great!” 

He moves on again, commenting on the others, and when they’re not actively being directed to look at the other couples, John always reinstates their hug position, and Sherlock loves it. When they’re finally told to sit down again, they sit very close to each other on the loveseat and John takes his hand again, holding it tightly. Todd has them experiment with different ways to sit together for maximum intimacy. After that, they discuss sleeping positions, and if Sherlock and John contribute less to this particular conversation out of their own lack of related experience, no one seems to notice. 

Finally, Todd says, “Well, gents, that brings us to the end of your circle meetings for the week! I think that of everyone here, only Brad and Doug are signed up for a second week, right?” When they confirm, Todd explains, “You’ll be assigned to a new group next week then, with other second weekers, and the shift will go more into one-on-one sessions with Margaret, et cetera. For everyone else, though, this is it! It’s been a real pleasure getting to know you all a little. I hope you’ll take full advantage of the activities, workshops, and discussion groups tomorrow and Saturday! I’ll be leading one on the topic of Topping versus Bottoming tomorrow afternoon, which is always good for a laugh and causes a lot of blushing. We have to talk about these things candidly, yeah? Anyway, you’ve got an hour before lunch now, so off you go. Make the most of it!” 

“That’s a good motto for life,” Avi says, and Todd agrees. 

“Thank you, Todd,” Justin says, and there’s a hearty chorus of agreements, with applause. 

Todd takes a mock bow. “I live to serve,” he says. “See you at lunch!” 

Sherlock and John wander back to their room, hand-in-hand, and if John’s face is anything to go by, then he’s as happy as Sherlock currently feels. On the one hand, it feels ridiculous – they’ve got a case on. Lives are at stake. But on the other hand, their charade of being a couple has just stopped being a charade at long, long last, years of misunderstandings and grave injury to one another have been resolved, and it feels only just to give this its due. Besides, they’ve been specifically instructed to maintain their cover, and they are. When they reach their room, John turns and pulls Sherlock into his arms and kisses him for a very good, very long moment. It’s precisely what Sherlock was thinking about and wanting, and he kisses back with strength, both hands on John’s face. John’s hands are on his sides, stroking up and down, firmly enough not to be ticklish, and it feels like sinking directly back into the place they both wanted to be throughout that entire session. They kiss and kiss and there’s no hurry to it, just a great deal of enthusiasm and feeling, and Sherlock lets himself wallow in it freely. 

John winds it up after a bit with a last press of his lips to Sherlock’s, then says, “Everybody noticed. Us. How we’ve changed.” 

“Yes, though they don’t have any idea how much has changed,” Sherlock says, lifting his chin to allow John to kiss his throat all the better. 

“It’s hard to believe it’s been less than twenty-four hours,” John says a bit later, looking dreamily into his eyes. “Life just got so good, Sherlock. We’ll never misunderstand each other so badly again, and if we’re not misunderstanding each other, we’ll stop hurting each other.” 

Sherlock nods. “I hope so,” he says, meaning it deeply. 

“I know so.” John kisses him again and Sherlock doesn’t object in the slightest, their arms tight around each other. Their phones buzz at the same time. They break apart with reluctance. “Mycroft or Lestrade, do you think?” John asks, reaching for his. “I’ve got an email from Lestrade.”

“It’s Mycroft,” Sherlock says, looking at the screen of his phone. “He’s calling.” He presses the button to answer. “What?” 

“I hope I haven’t interrupted basket-weaving session,” Mycroft says snidely. “Are you in private?” 

“Yes, and just because you don’t understand the point of something doesn’t render it useless,” Sherlock says, scowling. 

Mycroft overrides him. “Thanks to having temporarily managed to remotely access his mobile phone, we’ve got a location on Jeremy Davidson.” 

“What! Where?” Sherlock demands. 

“A tiny place called Soskut, half an hour southwest of Budapest,” Mycroft tells him grimly. “Halfway to Russia, in other words. Interpol is on route as we speak.” 

“Good!” Sherlock looks at John, who is watching, his lips parted, waiting for the details. “As soon as they find him, I need to know if he knows who attacked him! We’re beginning to have a strong idea of who it might have been, but without Jeremy’s word we can’t do anything about it!” 

“I’ll keep you posted,” Mycroft says, and for once manages to hang up before Sherlock does. 

“Where is he?” John asks at once, sounding tense. 

“Soskut, Hungary,” Sherlock tells him. “A little place close to Budapest but far enough away to be remote. They got a ping on his phone. Interpol is going in, but we don’t know that he’s still there now, or that he will be by the time they get to him.” 

“They’ve got to find him, Sherlock,” John says tensely. He turns his phone to face Sherlock. “Email from Lestrade. They found a bomb at Scott and Jeremy’s flat.” 

Sherlock bends forward to read the details. “Whoever they are, they’re not messing around,” he says. “Someone wants Scott kept quiet. And I think I may know who.” 

“Lucas?” John suggests, and Sherlock nods. “Did he ask you about the disappearances? I never had a chance to ask before.” 

“That’s exactly what he asked about,” Sherlock says, frowning. “I don’t like it. If he’s running this scheme, is it possible that Todd doesn’t know? He seemed so concerned. And I want to trust him.” 

“I know,” John says, looking troubled. “Todd’s great. Or seems it, at any rate. But you heard what Justin and Thom said, about Paul. I’d put money on him being involved.” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Sherlock agrees. “I detest him.” 

John looks stern. “Let’s not let you be left alone with him at any point, yeah?” he says. “He’s already shown considerable interest in you. I’m not having you auctioned off into some sex trafficking scheme, only to find myself blown up or chucked down the nearest – ” He stops suddenly. 

Sherlock looks at him keenly. “What?” 

“I almost said ‘the nearest ravine’,” John says, frowning. “But – do you think that’s what they’ve been doing with the partners? The ones who never even made it back to London?” 

Sherlock feels his eyebrows rise. “It’s an interesting hypothesis,” he says. “And the hiking trails are off limits after nine in the evening…” 

“That’s an incredibly disturbing thought,” John says, frowning. “But something tells me that would be a lot easier than hauling a body all the way down to wherever the access road starts. It’s a much shorter walk to the ravine. Tell you what: let’s _not_ hike down to the lake after all. I’d rather not raise anyone’s suspicions. We learned what we needed to know from Kyle, anyway: there _is_ a road down there. If we both go off, way far away from anyone else, and if Lucas already thinks you’re investigating him, that seems like an obvious and stupid way to get ourselves killed. Let’s wait for the warrants and then we can send an entire SWAT team in to comb through the hills.” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he says. “Good idea. Meanwhile, let’s pull back a little. No more snooping around. Let’s do what we told Scott: stay in groups, be seen and visible whenever possible.” 

“Good thinking.” John checks the time. “Let’s get an update on the list of missing persons who came here in the past five years. We can see who went missing while they were here, who never checked out. I wonder… it would be really handy to get onto Kyle’s computer.” 

“Not without a warrant,” Sherlock warns. “We’d never get away with that, and I’ve been caught around the back offices twice already.”

“What we need is for Jeremy to be found,” John says anxiously. “We need to know what he knows.” 

“Or for Lestrade to find someone in London connected with any of the missing men,” Sherlock agrees. “I’ll phone him and see what he’s got.” 

“Good idea.” John goes to his laptop and Sherlock watches him for a second, grateful for how easily they can switch into work mode when it’s needed. There will be time for the rest of it later. 

*** 

After lunch, they opt for a demonstration on and discussion of oral sex techniques, which John chose with a grin from the list of options just before they left the room for lunch. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve never given a blow job in my life, though I’ve had a few. Might be handy to get a pointer or two before I try it on you. Which I’d very much like to do, for the record.”

Sherlock had swallowed at the very thought. “Same. And I’ve never given or received one.” He read the description on the list of the day’s activities and workshops. “A demonstration,” he said, staring at the word. “Do you suppose they mean on a banana or something? Surely they’re not going to show _live_ oral sex…” 

“Only one way to find out,” John said, so here they are, in one of the rooms attached to the dining room. It’s smaller than the common room, with seating for about eighteen people. The chairs have been arranged into a semi-circle. They’re the first ones there, but Brad and Doug arrive soon after, and then the other seats get filled with people they don’t know. 

The workshop’s host appears, one of the support staff whom they’ve seen here and there but never crossed paths with. He introduces himself as Adam and the two employees with him as Colin and Eric. Sherlock divines instantly that these are not their real names. Adam starts off with a merciful bypass of introductions and delves directly into the subject at hand. 

“Look,” he says, in what Sherlock supposes is meant to come off as a signature bluntness, “everyone here wants to think he’s a demigod when it comes to giving head. I mean, how hard can it be, right? Pardon the pun. You just put your mouth on it and suck. No big deal, right? However, it’s not as simple as that. You’ve got to learn to read your partner, know what he wants before he even knows that he wants it. You’ve got to learn his sounds, his body, the way he breathes, the way his muscles twitch when he needs it harder, faster, deeper, whatever it is. You want to pace it right, or else it can be like you’re constantly stepping on and off the gas. There’s nothing wrong with drawing it out, but if you’re not getting the timing right, it can be more frustrating than sexy. And then you’ve got to talk. Communication is key in sex. I don’t mean in the moment, but some other time when you’re doing something else. See what turns him on the most. Does he secretly fantasise about coming on your face? If so, are you cool with that? Does he want to come down your throat? Are you okay with swallowing? This is all going on the basis, of course, that you’re sexually exclusive and have been tested. Otherwise you’ll want to be using protection. Be smart about this.” 

Sherlock glances around the semi-circle and sees a few of the couples present look at each other and smile, while a few others shift in their seats instead. Interesting, he thinks. 

Adam goes on. “Now: we’ve got Colin and Eric with us today. I don’t know if some of you thought we wouldn’t give a live demonstration, but trust me: the staff here at Ravine Valley are well aware that there’s more to a relationship than sitting around talking about our feelings, as important as that is. Sex is important. You want to learn how to be the best lover you can be. Consider this an investment to that end.” He moves off to the side now. “Colin is going to start off by kissing Eric,” he narrates, and his demonstration couple comply obediently.

They’re both ridiculously attractive, fit young men, no older than twenty-six or thereabouts, and Sherlock wonders if being staff has kept them safe from being targeted as potential meat for the sex trafficking ring. He watches them kiss with a great deal of tongue and it’s immediately too interesting for his newly-awakened body. He makes himself watch without reacting as Colin, evidently the brunet, reaches down and starts touching Eric through his jeans. They’re both slim, yet well-muscled, both clad in jeans and t-shirts that are tight enough to have passed muster for Tuesday’s wet t-shirt contest. Eric does not touch back; evidently this demonstration is for his sake alone. Instead, he keeps his right hand on Colin’s shoulder where it’s not blocking anyone’s view. Eric is visibly hard, a significant bulge showing plainly under the ministrations of Colin’s hand. 

Sherlock clears his throat slightly and crosses his legs as casually as possible, wondering if the couple have other jobs besides this one. Surely they’re not also kitchen help or something. He wills his body to relax a little, and notes that John has just shifted his weight beside him. He’s feeling it, too, then. The thought makes him feel slightly better. 

“Colin is going to unzip Eric now and get onto his knees,” Adam says, and it unfolds as he says. 

Colin pulls Eric’s jeans down to his ankles and Eric steps out of them, leaving him in a pair of plain black briefs. Colin holds Eric by the hips and leans forward to bury his face in the straining fabric, inhaling audibly, and Eric moans. 

Adam gives a detailed play-by-play, sounding almost bored, but not quite. All three of them have obviously done this before. When Colin pulls Eric’s underwear down, Eric steps out of them without protest, and just like that, there’s a hard, naked penis in the room. It’s almost shocking; John’s penis is the only one Sherlock has ever particularly wanted to see, and up until last night, Sherlock had never seen one other than his own, apart from on the occasional corpse, and certainly not aroused. He wonders suddenly how many John has seen. The military, he reminds himself. Surely there, he would have. Who knows, though? Then he remembers John saying that he’s never given a blow job before and the thought relaxes him a little, though it shouldn’t matter, of course. Whatever happened in the past is the past. Still: it would be nice if some of this was as new for John as it is for him. The couple in front of the semi-circle don’t seem to mind being watched, it would seem. Perhaps they enjoy it, Sherlock thinks cryptically. He cannot deny that he’s finding it more than merely interesting to see it, either way. Adam narrates as Colin takes Eric’s erection into his mouth and begins to suck it, moving his mouth over it. 

“There are the basics, obviously,” Adam says, watching them. “Keep your teeth covered, unless you and your partner are into pain, in which case, go crazy. Obviously you’ll have discussed that first. Suck it. He can thrust, if you’re both okay with that, but personally I’ve always thought that one of the best things about getting a blow job is not having to do anything, just relaxing and letting your partner suck you into ecstasy. Personal preference, though; some men need the thrusting movement to get off. Now: listen to Eric’s sounds. He likes it, but he could be even more excited. So now Colin’s going to use his tongue to better advantage, both on the underside of Eric’s cock as well as licking around the head, along the shaft, as you can see, and this way Eric gets a change of texture, too. You like that, Eric?” 

“Fuck, yeah,” Eric pants, grinning without opening his eyes. 

Sherlock swallows a mouthful of saliva and grips his own fingers where they’re interlocked in his lap all the more tightly. 

“Now Colin’s going to go back to sucking, only this time he’ll increase the speed and depth of the movements of his head – like that, yeah,” Adam says with evident approval. 

Eric moans and Sherlock has to fight down the urge to echo it. His breathing is shot, though, coming hard and fast. 

“He’s getting closer,” Adam announces. “Colin is now going to give Eric’s balls a tug. Not too hard, just enough to produce an even deeper feeling, and now he’s going back to stroking Eric’s cock in time with his mouth. And now Colin is breathing on it, another quick change in texture before he ducks down there to kiss along the underside. We’re really emphasising the romantic aspects here, but of course you can do whatever you want. While Colin kisses Eric’s cock, watch how his hand keeps moving so that Eric doesn’t get bored and the general tempo doesn’t slack off.” Adam pauses as they all watch for a moment or two. Colin is breathing hard, too, an obvious tent in his jeans. “Eric likes going deep,” Adam tells them now, matter-of-factly. “Colin’s gone back to regular sucking now, but he’ll almost certainly let Eric come down his throat.” 

John reaches over and grabs blindly at Sherlock’s hands, dangerously close to his crotch, and they link hands so tightly it’s painful, but that doesn’t matter right now. They’re both watching. Adam points out everything that’s happening, from changes of speed to the specific tightness of Colin’s mouth. 

“I want to fuck your mouth,” Eric tells Colin, and Colin makes a sound of agreement. He reaches around with both hands to squeeze Eric’s arse. 

Beside Sherlock, John exhales vocally, just a slip of moan mixed into his breath. His leg is touching Sherlock’s and it’s trembling, but then, so is Sherlock’s. He didn’t realise this workshop would be a live demonstration of pornography. He wonders what Todd thinks of this, but his thoughts are too blurred with arousal to hold onto the thought for long. 

Eric takes Colin’s head with both hands and holds it in place, then begins to thrust into Colin’s mouth, deeply, groaning as he does so. “Fuck, that feels so good – ” he gets out, and on the other side of the circle, Sherlock notices that one of the men he doesn’t know is sporting an extremely visible erection, sweat shining at his temples. Brad and Doug are grasping one another’s knees in manly silence, but there’s vein straining in Brad’s temple. 

“Eric is going so deep that it’s almost certainly pushing Colin’s soft palate up and making it difficult to breathe,” Adam tells them, still sounding as though he’s describing the migratory patterns of birds or something of equal interest. “However, Colin gets off on a bit of breath-play, and they’ve discussed this in advance, so he’s taking care of business on his own.” 

This euphemism is meant to summarise the fact that Colin’s right fist has brought out his own erection and is jerking it furiously as Eric plunges himself into Colin’s throat. A soft grunt of released air somewhere down the semi-circle is highly suggestive of the notion that someone has just attained orgasm from watching this. Sherlock is entirely unsurprised; he’s barely holding on, himself. He grips John’s hand even tighter and swallows hard as Eric comes with a shout, slamming himself into Colin’s face, and John grips back just as tightly. When Colin’s spray of release arcs out across the carpeted floor, Sherlock closes his eyes and stops breathing for a moment or two, his thighs rigid with the effort of holding himself together. 

Adam looks around the semi-circle and chuckles. “All right, folks. Take ten minutes. When we come back we’ll be talking about rimming, so buckle up.”

The group hastily disperses. Sherlock sees two couples heading into the nearest men’s room – at the same time, interestingly – but John is tugging him with determination back in the direction of the north guest wing, which is about as far away as possible – agonisingly far, given both their physical states. Sherlock feels light-headed with arousal and practically giddy, stumbling along after John to the best of his ability, given how hard he is. They’ve only just made it into the room when John slams the door behind them, locks it, then drops to his knees and yanks Sherlock’s trousers and underwear jointly down to the floor, his erection bobbing upward the instant it’s freed from the confines of his clothing. 

“Off,” he demands, and Sherlock complies as hastily as his clumsy, arousal-heavy limbs will permit. “Shirt,” John says next, as though he’s forgotten how to make complete sentences, but then he adds, “ _Hurry_ , Sherlock – ”

Sherlock has never divested himself of a shirt so quickly, and no sooner has it hit the lush carpeting than John’s mouth is on him and he moans, louder than he knew he could. His entire body spasms at the sheer amount of stimulation, of almost overwhelming pleasure, and it’s only just started. He grips ineffectually at the door, fingers scrambling at the smooth wood for a purchase he cannot find, until John takes his right hand and puts it in his hair, and Sherlock gets the drift and holds on for dear life with both hands. John’s mouth is wickedly talented and Sherlock’s thighs are trembling violently. He’s gasping raggedly, aloud, unable to control the sounds he’s making at all, fingers clenching in John’s soft hair. He’s so hard he feels as if he could explode when the moment comes. He isn’t thrusting, doesn’t need to; John’s head is bobbing rapidly over him, the friction building and building, every muscle and tendon of Sherlock’s body winding tighter and tighter and then – the dam bursts, white lights flashing behind his eyes, and he’s pouring forth a stream of release like a river into John’s mouth, holding John’s head to his body, his penis buried in John’s soft, flexible, gripping throat. He can’t help it; he’s stuck like this, coming uncontrollably, and he might be shouting, too. 

When it finally passes, somehow he manages to remember about the soft palate and John’s breathing, and gently pushes John’s mouth off him with limp, boneless fingers. His knees turn to water and he slides in a heap to the floor, unable to stand any longer. 

John is saying his name, then pulling him all the way down to the carpet, turning him onto his back and kissing his hot face over and over again. Sherlock is too dazed to respond, light still sparkling through his retinas. John’s kisses are fevered, half appreciative and half desperately needy, Sherlock finally realises, his thoughts clearing. He didn’t get himself off during it, then – he focused all of his efforts on Sherlock alone. Well, then. 

He pulls John’s mouth to his own and kisses back, recovering his strength at last. He pushes his thigh between John’s legs and rubs it over the protruding hardness of his erection, and John moans and ruts against it, gripping at Sherlock’s arm and panting against his lips. Sherlock’s focus is returning swiftly. He gets the button of John’s jeans undone and reaches directly inside his underwear to stroke him, and John reacts with frenzied need, his entire body spasming and squirming, pushing into Sherlock’s hand, his voice rising. “Shh,” Sherlock tries, as John seems almost in a panic. “I’ve got you – do you want it like this, or can I – ?”

He wants to try it with his mouth, but what John wants is more important. John shakes his head, so quickly it’s almost a spasm. “N-no – you can – do whatever you – ” he gets out, stuttering in his need, so Sherlock is swift. 

He kisses John’s open mouth again, then slips down his body, and together they wrestle John’s jeans and underwear off him. Sherlock is left lying in the open vee of John’s legs and looks directly at his penis for the first time. It’s wonderfully thick and just the right length and Sherlock decides it is utter perfection. He holds it with his right hand and puts his mouth over the end of it, then remembers his tongue and cups at the underside of John’s erection with it. John is breathing so quickly he’s nearly hyperventilating, so Sherlock decides that perhaps later will be the time to draw this out and explore. He puts himself to the task of bringing about John’s orgasm, careful to keep his teeth from touching John’s most sensitive skin and slides his mouth up and down the length of John’s erection, trying not to feel silly about the way his head is bobbing. It doesn’t matter. He listens for John’s cues, already determined that nothing short of seriously communicable disease would ever prevent him from ingesting John’s DNA if presented with the opportunity, and said opportunity is literally in his mouth now. He sucks and touches and rubs and uses his tongue with every ounce of dedication he possesses, tasting the wetness welling from the head, and then John cries out, his mouth trying to form Sherlock’s name but never getting past the _Sh_ , and then he comes, a hot burst of liquid hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock eases back, swallowing, and squeezes his hand up and down John’s length, urging, and John comes again, a gut-deep shout coming with it, and then there’s a third splatter. Sherlock swallows again, then releases John’s penis and licks at it gently once or twice, then crawls up over John and deposits himself onto him like a blanket, kissing his neck and throat while John pants and clutches at him weakly. 

“Holy shit,” he manages, a few minutes later. “ _God_ , you’re phenomenal, Sherlock!” 

Somehow this is startling. “ _I’m_ phenomenal – you’re the one who literally made my knees give way,” Sherlock returns, out of sheer surprise. 

John chuckles, still panting. “We’re going to get very, very good at this with some practise, you know,” he says, and Sherlock feels a surge of euphoria. 

He smiles down into John’s face and feels dizzy with how much he feels for him all over again. “I hope so,” he says. 

“I know so.” John pulls his face down and they kiss for a long time, relaxed and messy and wet, and it’s perfect. Their bodies are spent and heavy and soft and Sherlock loves that, too. 

“We didn’t even make it to the bed,” he points out, some time later. 

“That can be remedied.” John sits up, then stands and pulls Sherlock to his feet. “Bed,” he says. “I’m going to open another bottle of champagne.” 

Sherlock grins. “I guess we’re not going to the second half of the workshop, then.” He has no objection whatsoever to this, particularly not given the current options. He gets into the bed, sitting up against the headboard. 

John uncorks the champagne and brings it with him, lifting the blankets and sliding over to Sherlock. “Hell, no. I think it might kill us. Did you see that one bloke who lost his load right there in the room? We held out and we’re brand new at this.” 

“I was hanging on by a thread,” Sherlock admits. 

“So was I. That was pure pornography,” John says. He takes a swig of champagne directly from the bottle and hands it to Sherlock. “I, however, would rather make our own pornography, right here and now. So drink up, lover. We’ve got a lot to learn.” 

Sherlock looks at him and smiles, then takes a long drink of the cool, fizzing wine. “So we do,” he says, and hands the bottle back. “Let’s not waste any more time, then.”

*** 

Sherlock wakes before the alarm he set goes off. It takes him a moment to recognise what the sound he’s hearing is, but then he turns and reaches for his phone where it’s ringing on the night table. It’s Mycroft, and he notes as he lifts the phone to his ear that it’s not yet six in the morning. “Mycroft,” he says, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “Do you have any idea what time it is? This better be important.” 

“Interpol has located Jeremy Davidson,” Mycroft announces, somehow managing to sound both superior and annoyed. “Some of us were _working_ , Sherlock,” he adds snidely. 

Sherlock yawns, though not deliberately. “Where is he?” he asks, before Mycroft can chastise him for this. “Is he all right?” 

Mycroft sounds justifiably grim. “He was semi-conscious when they found him forty minutes ago. He requires medical attention and he seems to have been at least partially brainwashed. My people are saying that, given his mental condition, it may take at least twenty-four hours to get anything reliable out of him. He’s not conscious at the moment, but I think that was intentional.” Mycroft pauses. “He’s been beaten, Sherlock. They were careful to avoid his face, but otherwise – these people are animals.” 

Sherlock is more awake now. “Understood,” he says. “Where was he found?” 

“In a two-room structure on the outskirts of Soskut. Interpol took out the three guards and removed Davidson without being caught. However, we’re waiting to find the rest of the team, and then the rest of the organisation.” 

“Any leads on that?” Sherlock asks. 

“Not yet, but Interpol is working on a lead that they feel very confident about. We may well have them within the next few hours. I’ll keep you posted,” Mycroft says. “Meanwhile, don’t tell the partner. He’d just be upset. We’ll get Davidson cleaned up before we question him or send him home.” 

“Yes. Good,” Sherlock says. “Will you let Scott know that you’ve found Jeremy, though? He would want to know.” 

“I’ll notify him, then. With minimal details,” Mycroft says. 

“Good.” Behind him, John stirs, then turns and shifts over to Sherlock, wrapping himself around Sherlock from behind and making a long and very contented sound in his sleep. Sherlock smiles in spite of himself, and lowers his voice. “Lestrade’s list of missing persons is pretty thorough. We just need something from Jeremy to justify a warrant, and then we can search the computers here,” Sherlock says. 

“I’ll do what I can.” Mycroft pauses awkwardly. “Well. I’ll let you get back to… whatever you were doing.” 

“I was sleeping,” Sherlock says rather pointedly. 

“Right.” Mycroft is clipped. He ends the call without another word. 

Sherlock puts his phone down and shifts back into the warm curve of John’s embrace, finding John’s hand on his stomach and lacing his fingers into it. The rest of their Day 4 was completely wonderful. They spent most of the afternoon in bed, then showered together and went to dinner, which was prawns in garlic butter on basmati for Sherlock and roasted chicken risotto with truffles for John, followed by raspberry sorbet for Sherlock and molten chocolate caramel lava cake for John. They’d joined the larger group for board games and beer in the bar afterward, then went back to the room and the haven of their newfound, insular world of two. They’d lit the fire and stretched out on the floor, talking about everything and nothing, until they’d started kissing again. This time they’d moved to the bed first, and it was slow, lazy, drawn-out, and utterly incredible. Sherlock’s discovered that he likes having John’s fingers inside him, and to both their surprise, John liked it when Sherlock tried it on him, too. (“I guess we really do need to go to Todd’s workshop tomorrow,” John had said, and Sherlock agreed.) Now, in the pre-dawn hours, they’ve only slept for four hours or so. Sherlock searches his memory, and remembers that Todd’s workshop only starts at ten. He hesitates, then dials the number for the front desk. 

A message comes on; Kyle is not at the desk yet. “Er, good morning,” Sherlock says, keeping his voice down. “This is Sherlock Holmes in room 19. I just wondered if we could possibly have our breakfast served in our room today, around half-past nine, if that’s all right. Thanks.” He disconnects, resets his alarm for ninety minutes later than it was, then eases back into the comfort of John’s arms and wills himself to fall back asleep. Mycroft will call if they need to do anything. For anything less, Sherlock refuses to lose a single minute of this. 

They sleep. 

*** 

Todd has been speaking for the past fifteen minutes, introducing his topic of Topping vs. Bottoming and giving some historical background to the terminology and practises involved. He wasn’t exaggerating the workshop’s popularity; there are close to thirty people in the common room. The loveseats have all been pushed back against the walls to make room for three wide semi-circles of chairs. Todd is speaking freely, without podium or notes, giving a talk which he’s clearly given many times before. Sherlock and John are sitting with Andrew and Avi in the second row on the left side of the room. 

“Now I want to open it up and get some discussion going,” Todd says. “So let’s hear from you: what defines a top versus a bottom? Is it possible to be both or neither? If you’re not sure what you are, how do you find out? Go.”

Someone Sherlock doesn’t know clears his throat on the far side of the room. “Well, they’re sexual positions,” he says. “I guess some people see it as more than that, though. It’s a way of defining the sort of person you are.” 

Todd nods at him. “Great start, Chris. So what sort of people are tops and bottoms, respectively?” 

Someone else pipes up. “Tops are the dominant ones, bottoms are the submissive ones,” a tall, dark-haired man in his late forties says. He’s sitting with his arm around the shoulders of a shorter, younger man. Observing him, Sherlock takes note of his casually possessive demeanour. His partner is leaning against him, hands in his lap. 

Justin, sitting one row ahead of them, looks over at him. “Not necessarily,” he says. “I mean, typically both my partner and I prefer bottoming, sexually, but I wouldn’t say that either of us is particularly dominant or submissive. We can both be bossy both in bed and in our relationship, and we can both defer to what the other person wants.” 

Todd smiles at him. “One would hope that some manner of deferral would happen in any relationship, regardless of the question of tops and bottoms. Would you like to respond to that, Richard?” 

Richard shrugs. “I think it’s fine if some couples switch, but we don’t. I don’t bottom. And as far as our relationship goes, it’s pretty clear cut. I run a business and bring in the money. Sean does most of the work in running the flat, along with the cooking and laundry and the rest of it. We’re pretty typical, I think.” 

Brad clears his throat. “I guess we’re not, then. I’d say we were both tops when we met. We had to figure out some kind of arrangement so that we’d both be happy.” 

Todd smiles at him. “Do you want to share what that arrangement is, Brad? You don’t need to, of course. I just ask because it could be enlightening or helpful for other couples with the same issue.” 

Doug looks at Brad, then says, “Basically our arrangement is that about eighty percent of the time, I bottom. I discovered that I don’t mind it, especially when it’s done right, so Brad makes sure that it’s good for me, and we’re both happy.” 

“And the other twenty percent of the time?” Todd prods. “Do you top those times?” 

“Yes,” Doug says. “Sorry, I should have specified: I meant eighty percent of the times that we’re doing penetrative sex.” 

Todd looks around the room. “Other thoughts?” he invites. “Is the whole top/bottom question strictly one of sexual positions, or does it extend into a wider territory in terms of relationship roles?” 

“I don’t think it has to extend to relationship roles,” Andrew says, from John’s left. “Our ideal is to keep things pretty balanced. We make decisions together. We both earn money. We both clean our living space. We’re talking about adopting a child, and if we end up deciding to do it, we would both assume that taking care of our child is an equal responsibility. That’s actually one of the things I personally like the most about being gay: it makes me feel free of the pre-set expectations of heterosexual relationships. No one is being told to stay in the kitchen or any of that nonsense. We can both just be responsible adults who share responsibilities of every kind, regardless of whether they were traditionally considered ‘male’ or ‘female’. Which is a load of crap in the first place. It’s the twenty-first century. Everybody works, and everybody needs to cook and clean and look after their kids and the rest of it. All of us being men just means that the traditional stereotypes don’t apply, so we’ve got to figure out how to divide all of that up, see what works for our relationships.” 

Someone else chips in then, and a brief, controlled argument breaks out. Sherlock sits back in his chair and listens to all of it, aware that John is doing the same. Todd guides the conversation but never steers it, mediating between opposing viewpoints and giving gentle reminders here and there. To his own surprise, Sherlock finds himself almost missing the daily circle meetings. Ironically, these workshops are proving terribly informative and the timing couldn’t be better: he and John have just, thanks in no small part to the therapists here, finally managed to surmount their years of misunderstandings, and now it’s as though they’re receiving counselling and training on how to navigate their newfound relationship. 

After half an hour of further discussion, Todd changes the topic a little. “Here’s a new question,” he announces. “Is anyone here not entirely sure whether he’s a top or a bottom?” 

Several hands go up. After a pause, John looks at Sherlock, then raises his own, so Sherlock raises his, too. 

“Good,” Todd says. “And – only if you feel like sharing this, of course – do we have any couples here who have never engaged in penetrative sex?” 

There are more hands now, including theirs. Justin turns around and looks at them. “What?!” he gets out, sounding incredulous. 

“Justin,” Todd says, with just a hint of reprimand there. “This is why we never make assumptions!” He gazes at Sherlock and John thoughtfully for a moment, but doesn’t comment. “Does anyone here actively prefer to avoid these labels altogether?” 

Andrew and Avi both raise their hands, and so do a few other couples, and Todd opens up a discussion on this. The entire thing is enlightening and informative, and Sherlock feels decidedly glad that they came. They’re sent off thirty minutes before lunch is to be served and find themselves in the courtyard with Justin, Thom, Andrew, and Avi. Sherlock stretches out in a long deck chair, his eyes closed under the overhead sun, John next to him in a matching chair. 

“This is perfect,” John says. “All that’s missing is a margarita or something along those lines.” 

“Or a daiquiri,” Thom agrees. 

“I’d rather have a beer. Maybe I’ll order one at lunch,” Andrew says. “Anyone else order the taco salad?” 

“We both did,” Sherlock says. 

“That was a bit of a bombshell back there,” Justin says. “Not to pry or anything, but have you two really never – ?”

Sherlock opens his eyes in time to see Thom elbow Justin. “You know the rules,” he scolds. “We’re not supposed to bring circle meeting discussions out of the circle!” 

“Oh, come off it,” Justin scoffs. “Come on, you two: dish the dirt!” 

Sherlock looks at John, who shrugs and says, “We’ve just never tried it. That’s all. It was fun watching you all try to guess yesterday, though.” 

Avi, generally the quietest of them, laughs and says, “Well, carpe diem, my friends. Life is short. You should at least try it before you get old and bored of sex. Though from the way you’re both _still_ glowing, that’s obviously not going to happen any time soon. The two of you look like you’re on your honeymoon, for God’s sake!” 

John smiles at Sherlock and reaches over for his hand. Sherlock smiles back and puts his in John’s. “It does feel a bit that way,” John admits, though neither of them bothers disclosing why. 

The discussion turns to Andrew and Avi and the question of adoption. Justin and Thom have questions about the process, so he and John are left to drift slightly, in their own world. John does not mention Rosie or stiffen because the subject of children has been raised, and Sherlock senses that he’s content enough at the moment. Time really does heal, he thinks, at the same time feeling some combination of tenderness and protectiveness toward John so large that he feels hardly able to house it within himself. He checks his phone subtly when they go in for lunch. Lestrade has sent what he believes to be a complete list of men who have gone missing during or after their stays at Ravine Valley. Everything is hanging on Jeremy, now. All they can do is wait. 

*** 

Their second couples massage is the opposite of the first: not at all awkward this time, and perhaps it’s specifically because he’s so much more at home with his sexuality now that Sherlock is able to let go and fully enjoy this massage. He gets hard about twenty minutes into it, and when it finishes nearly fifty minutes later, he’s breathing raggedly, his heart racing, just waiting for Roberto and Alex to leave them alone. The promised bottle of sauvignon blanc is already waiting in an ice bucket on the side of the hot tub, but there are more pressing priorities on hand. 

The door closes and John turns himself onto his side, pushing down the towel to reveal an obscenely hard erection. “God, I’m hard,” he says with a groan, in a spectacular understatement.

Sherlock’s mouth waters just looking at it. He turns himself so that he’s sitting upright, very much aware of his own protruding erection. “Yes, you are,” he says, unable to take his eyes from it. 

“So are you.” John sits up, too, and reaches one foot forward to rub at Sherlock’s ankle, and even that adds to the overall stimulus at the moment. John smiles at him, his eyes hooded. “What do you want?” he asks, his voice husky. “Tell me how you want me to touch you.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth, hesitates for one second, then decides to just say it. “Toward the end, when he was massaging my arse… I started thinking about last night again. I’m a bit torn between what I want you to touch the most, but I think that might be it. I want you to put your fingers in me again.” 

John smiles, a wonderful, slow, seductive smile that doesn’t take anything away from the gentleness in his eyes. “I think we can make both happen,” he says. 

“But what about you?” Sherlock asks, rubbing his foot against John’s. 

“The biggest turn-on for me right now is getting to touching you again, honestly,” John tells him. “Come here and kiss me.” 

Sherlock slides off the table and puts himself between John’s thighs. They kiss, slowly, sensually, their bodies simultaneously relaxed, yet incredibly aroused, and it’s a nice combination. John puts his hands directly on Sherlock’s arse and continues kneading it exactly the way Alex-or-Roberto was, which is perfect – Sherlock was wishing that they were John’s hands at the time, and now they are. His tongue is in John’s mouth, their penises rubbing up against each other’s, John’s legs are wrapped around his hips for leverage. 

He breaks off the kiss. “Pass me the oil,” he requests, and Sherlock reaches for it and gives it to him, and John kisses him again. “Now turn that way and lean over your table, there. Yeah, like that,” he says, as Sherlock braces himself on his palms, bending forward. John steps up close behind him and runs his oiled fingers back from Sherlock’s perineum to the entrance to his body, which makes his head drop forward, panting shallowly. John isn’t wasting any time about this. He’s still a little bit open from last night, but John is gentle, rubbing and massaging at his hole with the fingers of his right hand, slowly stroking Sherlock’s erection with his left. His own erection is pushed up against Sherlock’s hip, and that’s a stimulus, too, being able to actively feel how turned on John is by doing this. 

His fingers are inside now, two of them, stretching and twisting this way and that, and Sherlock is breathing quickly, magnified in the small room. There comes the blush of pleasure as John expertly rubs his prostate, blooming like warmth and making his penis twitch in John’s hand. It feels so good that he can’t speak, his eyeballs practically rolling in his skull. He exhales and it comes out as a throaty moan, louder than he intended. “John…” he exhales, and doesn’t know what he’s asking. 

John is panting, too, his very breath shaking. “Yeah?” he gets out, rubbing himself against Sherlock’s hip. It’s leaving wet smears on Sherlock’s skin and suddenly Sherlock knows precisely what he wants. 

He turns his head to meet John’s eyes. “Do you want to fuck me?” he asks, blinking through his lashes, and John blinks, too, and swallows hard. “Because I think I want you to.” 

John hesitates. “You _think_ you – ”

“No, I want you to,” Sherlock interrupts, stating it clearly this time. “I want to try it. Carpe diem, right?” 

John’s face drops forward to Sherlock’s left shoulders and he kisses it, open-mouthed, a scrape of his lower teeth. “Yes. God, yes. I absolutely want to try that. If you’re _sure_.” 

“I’m sure,” Sherlock tells him, and John moves closer still and curls his head forward to kiss Sherlock, still holding him by the erection, his fingers still buried inside him. 

“Okay,” John says, half-whispering, after. “Just – let me stretch you a little more. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Sherlock agrees, closing his eyes as John works his body open, his mouth open, and then John takes his fingers away. “I’ve been tested, you know,” Sherlock says into the silence that follows. “At the hospital. I’m clean.” 

John steps close and hugs him from behind. “I was just about to tell you the same thing. I know you were. I saw your chart. I was just trying to figure out how to tell you that I had myself checked, just to make sure. But we can use a condom if you want to.” 

“I specifically _don’t_ want to,” Sherlock says, make it as plain as possible, and John laughs and hugs him again. 

“I love you,” he says, out of the blue, and Sherlock’s heart soars. 

“I love you, too,” he responds, then gasps in his next breath – John’s erection is there, rubbing at the cleft of his arse, and just the feeling of it there is more intimate than he was prepared for, somehow. It’s more intimate than fingers. 

John’s left hand is on his chest, pinning Sherlock against himself. “Are you ready?” he asks, and Sherlock nods feverishly. 

“Please,” he requests, and John doesn’t deny him. The sensation of John entering him for the first time is simultaneously alarming and deeply fulfilling – at first it feels as though every border wall he has ever built is being breached, his muscles groaning in a slow burn of invasion, while at the same time, sparks of pleasure and that same glow of pleasure from his prostate are countering it, followed next by the sensation of feeling more connected than he’s ever imagined two people could possible feel. He’s panting and so is John, in his ear, his mouth lipping at it. When he feels John’s hipbones against his arse, he knows that John is fully seated within him, and the knowledge causes fireworks to go off in the synapses of his brain. They are one. _At last._

John puts his face into Sherlock’s hair and exhales and it’s still shaky. His hands stroke up and down Sherlock’s well-oiled torso and rub at his nipples. “God, I love you,” he says again, his voice punctured with emotion. 

“I know – me too,” Sherlock gets out. John goes on touching him, reaching down for his erection and urging it back into full hardness from its slight flagging over the bit of pain that came with John entering him. When he begins to move, it’s careful, experimental, everything well very controlled. 

“You – you feel like nothing I’ve ever felt before,” John tells him, thrusting at a steady, even, unhurried pace. 

For Sherlock, however, the pleasure is mounting rapidly. “You too,” he says tightly, then – “John, you can – go faster – please – ” He meant to say _if you want to_ , but his body isn’t permitting him to be that diplomatic. John seems unbothered by this, though, and does exactly what Sherlock asked, thrusting into him harder and faster now. Sherlock can feel the oil between their bodies, pungent and spicy and mingling with the scents he’s quickly getting accustomed to as the scents of sex. The nudge of John’s penis against his prostate is enough to reduce him to a whimpering, needy mess, and John is still stroking his erection at the same time. Sherlock is skewered between John’s penis and his hand in twin points of agonisingly wonderful pleasure and he _needs_ – 

Just then John gasps out, “Fuck, Sherlock, I’m – I – ”

Sherlock can’t answer; he’s writhing on the precipice of his orgasm and can’t speak, his breath suspended and turning to fire in his lungs. John gives a mighty thrust and holds himself to Sherlock, flooding his body with release and Sherlock’s body immediately follows suit, as directly as though John’s release is passing directly through him and pounding out through his own erection. Sherlock is fully out of control, coming unstoppably as John’s fist jerks over him. He gives several miniature thrusts further, but all still fully within Sherlock’s body, the release splattering Sherlock’s insides even as Sherlock shouts through his own ejaculation, his release shooting out in gobs over the massage table. 

When it finally ends, Sherlock genuinely has no idea if the entire thing took ten minutes or half an hour. His body is weak and shaking all over, and for a moment they just slump forward over the massage table, John still buried inside him, their backs heaving as they try to catch their breath. When he can move, Sherlock discovers he’s drooled a little and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hot tub,” he says, unable to form complete sentences yet, and John makes a sound of agreement, eases himself out of Sherlock, which brings a warm wash of his release with it, and he turns Sherlock bodily around to kiss him deeply. 

Somehow they get themselves into the hot tub, spaghetti limbs and all, and slump down into the soothing mineral salts, letting themselves float. The mineral water they’re to drink is behind John again, so he pours them both tall glasses, which they down immediately and refill and drain again, then John opens the wine. He hands Sherlock a glass and lies back again, leaning his head against the edge of the tub. “That,” he says, his voice marvellously lazy and relaxed, “was the most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced.” 

“Me too,” Sherlock says, with complete sincerity. “There – aren’t words.” He gazes into John’s eyes from across the small hot tub, then tries to put it into words, anyway, for John’s sake. “I felt… whole,” he says. “I still do. Even though you’re not in me anymore – I still feel as though you are.” 

John smiles, his eyes becoming almost unbearably gentle. “I am,” he says, his tone matching his eyes. “I always will be.” 

Sherlock takes a long sip of the sauvignon blanc. It’s a good one. “Does that mean we’ve just answered the top/bottom mystery, then?” 

“Of course not,” John says, still smiling at him. His face is dreamy. “That was figurative. Obviously we’ll have to try it both ways. Every way. Everything and anything you want to do, Sherlock – we’ll do it. Honestly, before I met you, I would have considered myself more often as the dominant person in a situation, the one who would volunteer to lead or take on authority. But never in my life have I so instinctively followed someone else as I do with you. And that fits for me, too: I was a captain. That means I gave orders, but I took them, too. It seems I go both ways on that, as well as other things. I would say that the traditional roles aren’t going to fit us. I mean, if anyone thinks that either you or I is about to stay at home and cook while the other person is out and about, they’ve got another thing coming.” 

Sherlock studies him. “I rather liked what Andrew said at the workshop. About shared responsibilities. You and I have a shared work, too.” 

“Exactly,” John agrees. He takes a long sip of his wine. “We’re rather unique, I think. Our relationship will be its own thing: we’re not Justin and Thom, we’re not Brad and Doug. We’re who we are, and we’re not going to try to fit into anyone’s preconceived expectations of that that’s ‘supposed’ to look like.” 

Sherlock looks at him for a long time, hardly believing his own good fortune. “You’re rather incredible, you know,” he says, and John shakes his head. 

“No, I’m not,” he says. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes and done a lot of shit to you. But I love you, Sherlock. I mean that with everything that I am. It’s not that much to offer, maybe, but I’m wholly yours.” 

Sherlock thinks of John weeping at his empty grave and wants to say a thousand things to counter the negative parts of what John said. But right now it seems more important to accept the enormity of what John has just given him, and to return it in kind. “Come here,” he says, putting his wineglass down, and John moves forward and into his arms. Sherlock holds him tightly, his eyes closed, and says, “And I’m yours. Entirely. Always.” 

*** 

“I didn’t think it was possible for you two to glow any harder, but you’ve definitely amped it up,” Thom says, eyeing them that night at dinner. 

This is met with general agreement from around the table. “I’ll say,” Brad says. “You two are certainly getting your money’s worth out of all this therapy.” 

John beams and butters a roll. “Definitely.” 

“The elusive Doctor Watson, not even shying away from it,” Justin chips in. “You _are_ over the moon, aren’t you?” 

John looks at Sherlock and they smile at each other, Sherlock still chewing a bite of salad. “Yeah, I’d say we are,” John says, sounding vastly pleased about the entire thing. 

“What’s on everyone’s schedules for tomorrow?” Andrew asks. 

Their entire group is sitting together tonight, with the noticeable absence of Jeremy and Scott. Doug frowns. “Isn’t tomorrow the big final dinner and dance thing?” 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t start until the evening,” Andrew says. “There are still workshops and discussions in the morning. We’re going to a workshop on the specifics of British law and same sex adoption.” 

“We’re going to the baking class,” Justin announces. “They’re making macarons. I _adore_ macarons.” 

“As do I,” Thom says, sounding very content with their plan. 

Brad looks at Doug. “I thought maybe we could check out the hiking trails. Work off some of this dessert we’ve been having all week.” 

“Sure,” Doug says. “As long as there are short ones. And then what do you think about unwinding in our jacuzzi after?” 

“Definitely,” Brad agrees. “Great plan.” 

“What about you two?” Avi asks, directing the question at Sherlock and John. 

They exchange a look. “Honestly, we haven’t even looked at the schedule yet,” John tells him. “I don’t know, what are the other options?” 

“There’s a whole heap of discussion groups that all sound good,” Andrew tells him. “I don’t remember them all.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Sherlock says vaguely. 

“Code: you’re going to lock yourselves in your room and have sex all day,” Thom says dryly, and John smirks and doesn’t deny it. 

“We’ll see,” he says, as vaguely as Sherlock. 

Back in their room, they read the latest updates from Lestrade and his team and Sherlock endures a call from Mycroft, the upshot of which is that they’re still waiting on Jeremy to regain consciousness. “He’s just sleeping now, but the doctors don’t want to wake him,” Mycroft says, sounding impatient. “I’ll let you know as soon as he says a word.” 

Sherlock yawns. “All right,” he says. “How is Scott?” 

“He was glad to hear the news that Davidson’s been found, but was dismayed by the lack of detail,” Mycroft says. “He may be bored in the safehouse, but he’s safe, which is the point.” 

“Lucas has had their flat checked,” Sherlock tells him. “So do keep him there.” 

“I will.” Mycroft disconnects again. 

They undress and get ready for bed together, then climb into the luxurious bed and find each other in the middle. “Question,” Sherlock says. 

John raises his eyebrows, facing him, their heads on the same pillow. “Yeah?” 

“When we first got here and you discovered all the sex toys in the drawers,” Sherlock says. “Why wasn’t that funny? Why couldn’t we laugh at that?” 

John finds his hand and slots their fingers together again. “Because it was too close to home,” he says softly. “If we’d only ever just been friends, it would have been hilarious. We’d have had a sword fight with the dildos or something. But we both wanted this, so it felt like some sort of dark parody. A cruel joke.” 

Sherlock knows instantly that John is completely right about this. “Yes,” he says soberly. “That’s it exactly.” He searches John’s eyes, then asks another question that’s been hovering at the back of his mind. “This has all happened so quickly. I mean – just today, with the massage – it was only three days ago that we had our first massage. Two days since our appointment with Margaret, and our first kiss.” 

John is looking into his eyes, and sees the question that’s coming. “And you’re wondering if it’s only this place, if we’ll lose all of the magic or something when we go back home, to our normal life?” 

Sherlock hesitates. “It’s not that I worry that this will – stop, exactly, just – ”

“It won’t change,” John tells him, and his eyes are starry grey and beautiful. “I promise you, Sherlock. This isn’t going anywhere. I’ll move into your bedroom. We’ll have to christen it at our earliest convenience. We’ll just take it one day at a time, building our real life together. It’s been great, these past few months, but it’s been – careful. Too careful. Too polite. I was grieving over Rosie and neither of us knew exactly what to say to each other, because there was far too much unsaid, never dealt with or resolved. But now we’ve had the chance to sort that out. Everything is going to be better now. You’ll see.” 

“I believe you,” Sherlock says, and he does, mostly. He pushes a foot between John’s slender ankles. “I want to cook with you and shower with you and have long lie-ins on the weekends, or any day when we don’t have a case. I want to have sex in every room of the flat and go on dates with you. I don’t want to lose any part of what’s made this special or intense.” 

“Neither do I,” John tells him, smiling. “I want all of that, too. Think of this as the honeymoon. With an abduction/sex-trafficking case right in the middle of it all. Of course, that should make it the ideal honeymoon for you, anyway! When we get back home, it will be like – the real thing, beginning at last.” 

“But not like your last post-honeymoon phase, I hope,” Sherlock says dryly, and John laughs and shakes his head. 

“God, no,” he says. “I promise, I’m not going to keep my clothes ready to pack this time. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” 

John’s already made two promises, but Sherlock can’t help asking for another. “For good?” he asks. “Promise?”

John leans forward and kisses him for a long, long moment. “Forever. I promise, Sherlock,” he says, and pulls Sherlock fully into his arms again. 

*** 

They end up not attending any of the morning’s workshops. Instead, they spend it on headsets on their laptops, listening in as Interpol sends a squadron of soldiers into a compound in the neighbouring village of Pusztazamor. The traffickers are caught, cuffed, and loaded into Interpol’s helicopters. The entire operation takes nearly two hours. When Interpol shuts off their end of the communication, Mycroft comes back on the line. 

“I have more news,” he announces, sounding grimmer than ever. “Jeremy Davidson is awake. He has just identified an employee named Paul, who I presume to be Paul Cunningham and Lucas Brennan as the two people responsible for his abduction. He’s still disoriented, but he was very clear. I’ve just notified Lestrade, who is bringing in the cavalry. You’re due for lunch in five minutes. Do the staff usually eat with everyone else?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Should we – ”

“Do nothing out of the ordinary,” Mycroft orders. “But once lunch is finished, corner them in their offices and don’t let them out of your sight. Hold them there until Lestrade comes. Keep your cover, if at all possible. These are dangerous people, Sherlock. I don’t want either of you compromised, particularly if you’re separated. Is that clear, Doctor Watson?” 

“Quite,” John says. “When will Lestrade get here?” 

Mycroft pauses, possibly checking something, then says, “They’re already on the road. Expect them by half-past one at the latest.” 

“Understood,” Sherlock says. “In that case, we’ve got to get to lunch.” 

“Be careful,” Mycroft warns. 

“We will.” Sherlock ends the call and stands up, stretching after the long sit. 

John looks at him. “I’ll corner Paul,” he says firmly. “I don’t want you on your own with him.” 

“Lucas likely isn’t much better, but that would be my choice, too,” Sherlock says wryly. 

John comes to him, puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips, and kisses him, just for a moment. “Let’s go,” he says. 

*** 

Lunch is a bit tense for both of them. They keep quiet and listen to their group mates talk about their morning activities. Sherlock checks regularly on both Lucas and Paul, seated at one of the staff table with the other administrative staff. They’re sitting together, in fact, while Todd is sitting with some of the activity leaders at the next table. Odd, that, Sherlock thinks. He eats his way through a roasted chicken pita with Greek salad and hardly tastes it for once, thinking of Jeremy and the brainwashing. The beatings. Oddly, though it should hardly bear any weight on the matter at hand, he rather hopes the entire arrest and search of the premises doesn’t disrupt the big final dinner and dance scheduled for the evening, though it’s quite likely that it will. He feels a real pang of regret for the other couples here, who might have found it a good way to seal in their progress for the week and create a lasting memory to look back on, once arguments about dishes and in-laws and work conflicts crop up again down the road. Well, it can’t be helped, he tells himself. 

John nudges him; Lucas is just pulling back from the table. Sherlock nods minutely, chews and swallows the last bite of his pistachio macaron, and drains his coffee. It’s now five minutes after one. “Go,” John says quietly. “I’ll stay on – ” he indicates Paul with a jut of his chin. 

Sherlock makes noises about taking a short nap before the afternoon’s activities begin and tells John he’ll see him back in the room shortly, and John confirms this. Sherlock gives Lucas a twenty-second head start, then gets up and follows him the short distance to the administrative area. 

Lucas is just sitting down behind his desk when Sherlock appears in his doorway. He frowns, almost instinctively. “Mr Holmes,” he says. “Can I help you?” 

Sherlock takes care to look troubled. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But I was thinking over our last chat, about the missing couple from my group.” He goes over to a guest chair and sits down without being invited to do so, simultaneously wondering precisely how close Lestrade is at the moment. “Are you aware that there are after-hours sexual activities going on in the steam room most nights?” 

Lucas’ frown deepens. “In the steam room,” he repeats, as though he doesn’t understand the question. “What do you mean, ‘activities’?” 

“Just that,” Sherlock says. “Activities. Scheduled, planned activities, of an explicitly sexual nature. I’ve been informed of two so far, but there may well have been more. I wondered if you were aware of that. It does rather seem to fly in the face of the strict fidelity clause we all signed.” 

“These activities may have been planned by a guest,” Lucas says. “We certainly would never have arranged for something like that. As you said, it’s hardly in keeping with our mandate here.” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to ask who invited me to said activities?” he asks. “Or do you already have a suspicion of your own?” 

“No, I know nothing about this,” Lucas says forcefully. 

“Do you want to?” This is a direct challenge now, one that Lucas can hardly avoid. 

His jaw clenches visibly. “Of course. Please tell me whatever you know about the nature of these unsavoury activities,” Lucas requests stiffly. “I will, of course, investigate the matter.” 

Sherlock crosses his knees and folds his hands in his lap. “The first one I heard of was scheduled for Tuesday night following the wet t-shirt contest. I was told by two of my group mates that it was to be a circle jerk, starting at midnight. I was then invited to attend a second time, by Kyle’s assistant Paul, at the contest.” He studies Lucas’ face, which is unblinking and immobile. “You know him rather well,” he says astutely. 

“I know all of my employees well.” Lucas does not rise to this. 

“You were sitting with him at lunch today,” Sherlock says. “I find him… how did you put it? Unsavoury. He has made advances toward me this week that I find both distasteful and uncomfortable, given that I’m here to resolve my own issues with my partner. Does he treat all of your guests this way? Perhaps it’s Paul who’s been organising these late-night activities. Does he not have a partner? I would suggest that your couples counselling centre is no place for him to be cruising for one, if that’s the case.” 

He says all this deliberately angling to get a rise out of Lucas, and it’s working. His expression doesn’t change, but the colour rises in his neck and creeps up his face. “That will do,” he says, trying too obviously to mask the anger in his voice. “I’ll have a word with him.” 

Sherlock hears voices at the front desk fifteen metres away. The cavalry has arrived. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you,” he states calmly, and wonders privately why he didn’t reach this conclusion earlier. Perhaps having become more familiar with his own sexuality has made him more perceptive of it in other people now. Interesting. 

Lucas opens his mouth, about to make a hot denial, but before he can speak, Lestrade walks into the office behind Sherlock, hands pushed deeply into the pockets of his coat. 

“Lucas Brennan, you are under arrest,” he announces. 

Sherlock gives Lucas a faux-wince. “Oops,” he says, and gets out of the chair. He stops in front of Lestrade. “Warrant?” 

“Kyle at the front desk is looking it over as we speak,” Lestrade tells him. “We’ll have what we need soon enough.” 

“And John’s theory?” Sherlock asks, meaning the ravine, and Lestrade nods.

“We’ve got a special team in place for that. Where’s the other one? Paul Cunningham?” 

“Right here,” John says from behind the other officers, and Sherlock notes with pleasure that Paul has already been temporarily cuffed with a zip-tie. He makes eye contact with John and John grins briefly. 

“Good work,” Lestrade says briskly. “We’ve got it from here.” He turns to two of the sergeants. “Get that one in here. We’re going to question them before anything else, here on the premises.” He turns to Sherlock. “Anything I should know?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Paul is the organiser of the after hours sexual activities in the steam room. Jeremy Davidson was abducted from there on Tuesday night. Evidently this is how they cull their victims.” 

“I knew you were lying about being here for ‘therapy’,” Lucas snarls. “I knew the two of you weren’t really together, no matter how lovey-dovey you looked all the time!” 

Lestrade looks at Sherlock, who looks at John. John looks apprehensive, as though Sherlock is about to deny the entire thing, and he understands immediately that this would be deeply damaging. “Lovey-dovey?” Lestrade repeats. 

“Yes,” Sherlock informs him. “And nobody lied about anything.” He makes his way through the group of officers trailing Lestrade to where John is standing in the doorway. “You’re wrong,” he tells Lucas. “We only became aware of your trafficking ring after we arrived. We really did come here to work on our relationship.” With that, he puts a hand on John’s face and kisses him, there in front of everyone, and John kisses back, putting his hand over Sherlock’s. 

Lestrade makes a disbelieving sound. “Well, I just lost the office pool,” he says to Sergeant Willis, standing next to him. 

Sherlock hears this and smiles against John’s lips. “What do you want us to do?” he asks over his shoulder. “We can make ourselves useful.” 

“We’re fine – no, you know what, round up the other admin staff and let them know, okay?” Lestrade asks. “We’ll deal with the files and the – rest of it,” he says, meaning the search of the ravine. 

“Great. We’ll do it. Come on, John.” Sherlock takes him by the hand and they get themselves away. 

John squeezes his fingers. “Thanks for – not denying it,” he says quietly, and Sherlock shakes his head. 

“As if I would have,” he scoffs. “I’ll be bragging about this to every other person we meet. Just wait. But now, who do you think we should tell first? All of them at once, or just a few people?” 

John makes a thinking sound. “Well, Kyle already knows, so he’ll have questions,” he says. “Kyle, and Todd if he’s around – he’ll need to know anyway; it’s his husband. Poor guy.” 

“Okay. Let’s start there,” Sherlock decides, so they go back to the front desk. 

Kyle sees them and jumps up. “Sherlock! What’s going on?” he asks, looking very worried. “Do you know anything about it?” 

“We know just about everything about it,” Sherlock says. “We were coming to find you. Can we sit down for a few minutes? Is there someone besides Paul who can watch the front desk?” 

Kyle nods. “Let me get James from the kitchen. He does both prep and admin.” 

“We’ll be in Todd’s office,” John tells him. “Give us a few minutes with him and then come and join us.”

Kyle agrees and runs off. Todd’s office is in the other administrative corridor, and it’s very possible that he hasn’t heard the commotion. They find him checking his email. Sherlock knocks at the door, and Todd looks up and smiles at them. “Hello gents,” he says, and Sherlock almost hates to be the one to knock the smile off his pleasant, gentle face. 

“Not off today?” he asks, as he and John seat themselves. “It’s Saturday.” 

Todd is still smiling. “I take Sundays off, generally. Saturdays are light days, don’t worry. What can I do for you two?” 

Sherlock glances at John. John leans forward and says, keeping his voice very gentle, “Well, for starters, you’ve already done more for us than you can know, Todd. We wanted to thank you for that.” 

Todd opens his mouth as though to brush this off, but Sherlock raises a hand. “Just – wait,” he says. “We really mean that. Strictly between you and us, we weren’t a real couple when we arrived here on Monday. We are now, and we always should have been. You were right to wonder. But we didn’t get ourselves organised until this week, and you and Margaret are the people we have to thank for that. Obviously that’s not public knowledge, but I think you deserve to know this.” 

Todd has several conflicting expressions trying to occur simultaneously. “I’m glad,” he says, sounding wary but as though he really means it. “I’ve seen your transformation this week and it’s been incredible to watch. That explains a lot. But why did you come, then?” 

“It’s what you’re thinking,” Sherlock confirms. “We were investigating Ravine Valley, and I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but the police have just arrested two people. Paul Cunningham and Lucas Brennan.” 

Todd goes very pale. He swallows, then says, tightly, “What for?” 

Sherlock glances at John, then says, “It’s in connection with a human sex trafficking ring based out of eastern Europe.” 

Todd’s mouth opens, and he tries to inhale. He turns his chair away, bends over, and vomits into a wastepaper bin. John gets up and goes to get some water from the machine they passed in the corridor. Sherlock reaches for a box of tissues and pushes it over to Todd. “I’m sorry,” Todd says, spitting into the bin and sounding miserable. “Oh my God.” 

John returns with the water and gives it to him. “Drink it slowly,” he advises. 

Todd takes a tissue and wipes his mouth, then his eyes, which are tearing. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and another sip of water. “Tell me,” he says, sounding as though something within him has died. 

Sherlock feels for him. “Over the past few years, on occasion you’ve had a couple leave during the week,” he says. “All of these leavings are now being considered potential abductions. There was one this week: Jeremy Davidson, from our group.” 

Todd shakes his head. “I don’t understand. I thought he went back to London.” 

“No. He was taken from the steam room,” Sherlock says. “There was a scheduled circle jerk following the wet t-shirt contest.” 

“I barely approve of that contest,” Todd says. “But the steam room – who organised that? Paul?” 

John nods. “He’s been using it as his preying ground,” he says with disgust. 

Sherlock watches Todd carefully. “Did you… know that he was sleeping with Lucas?” he asks. 

Todd’s eyes fill again and this time he makes no move to wipe away the tears when they start to run down his face. “I knew there was someone,” he says, not meeting their eyes. “There had to be. I’ve been wondering for over two years already. And I suspected Paul. I’ve never liked him.” 

“Why not?” John asks gently. 

“Have you met him? He’s a creep,” Todd says with distaste. “Three years ago, Lucas gave me a Mercedes for Christmas. Last year he gave me some clothes, and suddenly Paul had a new Porsche. He never said that it had been given to him, or by who, but I suspected then.” 

“Christ,” John says sympathetically. “We’re so sorry, Todd.”

The door opens behind them and Kyle comes in. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Am I interrupting?” 

“No, you’d better sit down,” Todd says, indicating a third chair. “Let me just – take this out.” He gets up and removes the wastepaper bin, then comes back, pale but composed. “What do you know so far?” he asks Kyle. 

“Just that the police are searching the premises,” Kyle says. “Lucas and Paul are being questioned in Lucas’ office. I don’t know what’s going on otherwise.” 

“A sex trafficking ring,” Todd tells him through red eyes. “Run out of our place. Here, at Ravine Valley.” 

Kyle covers his mouth. “No,” he says, sounding stunned. “Not Lucas – he wouldn’t have – ”

Todd shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “He’s become obsessed with money. He bought me a Mercedes three years ago. Later I thought it was meant as an apology for the cheating, even if he never admitted it. I never asked.” 

“What?” Kyle demands, sounding outraged. “Lucas has been cheating on you?” 

“With Paul,” Todd says, sounding pained. 

“Of all the – if anything, you should have been cheating on him!” Kyle says hotly, obviously angry. 

“So, neither of you knew anything about this whatsoever?” John cuts in, though not impatiently. “You’re not under suspicion. I’m just asking.” 

Todd shakes his head and gives a bitter laugh. “Have I just lost your faith in me as a therapist?” he asks. “Unable to see something like this in my own house?” 

“Trust me,” John tells him grimly. “I’ve been there.” 

Todd meets his eye evenly for a long moment. “Your wife,” he says, understanding, and John nods. 

“She shot Sherlock in the heart, you know,” he says, reaching for Sherlock’s hand again. “Luckily, he outsmarted her even in that.” 

Sherlock smiles at him, then says, “Listen: I have a strong feeling that involvement in this trafficking ring is limited to Lucas and Paul. It can’t have possibly been more people than that. The working theory is that one or both partners would be taken, and the other partner silenced. Killed,” he clarifies, when both Todd and Kyle look confused. “Some of the men reported their partners as missing while they were still here. Others realised only after returning home that their partners had not simply come back early, and made their reports from London or Birmingham or Milton Keynes. One person made a report on a review website and it was removed within minutes. That was the one that first raised suspicions in connection with this place. Then, what do you know, but someone went missing under our very noses, a member of our own group. What I imagine will happen now is this: the police will make their search and gather evidence. John’s theory is that the ravine may have been used as a handy disposal place for the partners who weren’t selected. It’s being searched by a specially trained team as we speak. When all of this dies down, I imagine that you will legally inherit the full ownership of this place,” he says to Todd. 

“You’ll want to get a divorce in any case, I would think,” John tells him. “But this way the paperwork will be clean: Ravine Valley will be yours, and you can keep on running it and doing the good work that you and the other staff do here without much of a hitch at all. If we can, we’ll keep it out of the news, and we won’t tell the other guests any more than what they need to know. Perhaps you’ll need to hire another person or two, or promote Kyle to Director of Operations or something. Make Margaret your official Head Therapist and let the others take on a bit more responsibility. My point is, you can survive this. You’re stronger than you think, and your vision for this place is clear and rather beautiful.” 

Todd manages a watery smile. “Who’s counselling who now?” he asks. He sighs, then looks at Kyle. “What do you think?” he asks. “Feel up for a promotion?” 

Kyle blinks. “Are you serious? I would love that! I’d love to run this place with you! I mean – not _with_ you, like that, but – you know what I mean.” 

He flushes and Todd looks amused. Sherlock wonders how long Kyle has had feelings for him and thinks it must be good for Todd’s bruised ego about now. “I do know what you mean,” Todd assures Kyle. 

John looks at Sherlock and they get to their feet. “I know this is going to be painful and difficult,” Sherlock says. “I’m sorry. We’ll keep you posted of every development as it occurs. You can let your staff know whatever they need to know, as you like.” 

“What about tonight?” Kyle asks. “The farewell banquet and the dance? Can that still happen?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “That’s more your call than ours, but I don’t see why not,” he says. “Hopefully the police will be finished within the hour. The team in the valley may take longer.” 

Todd twists the ring on his fourth finger. “Can I see Lucas? I don’t even know if I want to, but if I did, could I?” 

John looks at Sherlock, then says, “We can ask the police. I would think so, since they’re still here.”

Todd looks at Sherlock. “What about Jeremy and Scott?” he asks. “Has Jeremy been found? Is Scott all right?” 

“Yes to both,” Sherlock tells him. “Jeremy was recovered in a small town in Hungary, we think on route to Moscow. We got Scott out during dinner on Wednesday night. He’s in a government-controlled safehouse as we speak.” 

“Thank God,” Todd says, letting out a shaky breath. He looks at John. “I think I do need to see him,” he says, meaning Lucas. 

John nods. “Come with me,” he says. 

Sherlock turns to Kyle. “How long have you worked here?” he asks. 

“Seven years,” Kyle tells him. “Can I help with something?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him. “You and I are going to confirm some registrations. Let’s go to your computer.” 

*** 

By half-past four that afternoon, the remains of two bodies have been identified in the ravine as two of their missing persons, and Paul Cunningham has made a full confession confirming the murders of five others, two here at Ravine Valley, two in London, and one in Milton Keynes. From the dates he gives in the confession, the first two ravine victims will have been fully decomposed by now, the process accelerated by the swiftly-flowing stream at the bottom of the long drop. A total of twelve men, including Jeremy Davidson, were sold to the traffickers at a huge profit: two pairs, and eight individuals, spanning a range of five years. Paul’s confession claims his involvement only for the past three years. He also claims to have been involved with Lucas for the past two, matching Todd’s suspicions. 

Sherlock, working with Kyle and Lestrade, finished matching up the dates and police reports and sorted out who was abducted and who was murdered, and Lestrade leaves uttering dark promises in terms of incarceration and court cases. Kyle volunteers to testify if needed. 

The police have gone now, taking Lucas and Paul with them. John left Todd with Lucas, under the protective watch of no less than five officers, and has no idea what was said between them. Either way, Kyle has just sent out an email to all of the guests, explaining that there was an incident that required police attention that afternoon involving an accident in the valley that needed investigating, that everything was now resolved, and that the evening’s scheduled dinner and dance will still be occurring. He says he hopes they’ll all come, and it sounds a bit anxious to Sherlock, but perhaps he’s reading into it. 

“Aren’t you glad you brought a suit now?” John asks, as they unwind in the jacuzzi in their own bathroom. They’re sipping their third bottle of champagne now and congratulating themselves on a case they really had very little to do with in the end, but it nonetheless feels right. 

Sherlock wriggles his toes under John’s arse. “I am,” he concedes. “I’m rather looking forward to tonight.” 

“I wonder what they’ll serve,” John says. “It’s a buffet, they said…” 

“I’m rather hoping that Kirk has outdone himself,” Sherlock admits. “We’re going to have to take up jogging or something after this week of gluttony.” 

John raises his eyebrows. “If you’re angling for a compliment on that gorgeous body of yours, you can just say so,” he says mildly. “I have no objection to commenting on it, at length and in great detail.” 

Sherlock grins. “Don’t let me stop you,” he says, and John pushes himself off his wall and swims over to him. They kiss and touch and revel in one another until it’s time to get out and get ready for dinner. They’re leaving tomorrow and Sherlock feels it keenly, though he trusts what John promised last night, that nothing will change after this magical week is over. Sherlock puts on a black suit with a black and white pin-striped shirt. John wears a grey suit with a navy shirt that brings out his eyes perfectly. They both decide to go open collar, no tie. The remainder of the champagne has been corked with a temporary stopper and put back in the fridge for later. John offers his hand and Sherlock takes it as they head off to the dining room for dinner. 

They sit with their group. John offers a toast to the absent Jeremy and Scott, and the others agree. Andrew adds, “And to all of us and the progress we’ve made this week.” 

“Hear, hear,” Doug says, and they all toast again. The servers have put out bottles of red and white wine at each table, and have come around offering cocktails and other beverages as well. 

Justin clears his throat. “So, what really happened this afternoon?” he asks, leaning in conspiratorially. 

“We can’t discuss it,” Sherlock says. “But you’re right in thinking that it was something more.” He takes a sip of water and adds, “There was something very wrong going on here, but it was limited to the actions of two people only. They’ve been arrested and everything is going to carry on as usual.” 

“Was one of them Lucas?” Brad asks. “Only, we saw him being loaded into a cruiser, so…” 

Sherlock glances at John, then says, “Yes. And Jeremy and Scott’s absence is related to this. They might want to tell you themselves, though.” 

Thom looks intrigued. “What? When?” he asks. “Are they coming back here?”

“No,” Sherlock begins, and John looks at him and takes over. 

He smiles around the table and says, “Well, we were thinking… our group has really bonded this week, and it would be a shame to lose that after we all leave. We had a chance to see everyone’s registration forms this afternoon and noticed that we all live in London. What would you think of meeting up once a month or so, and catching up? Just to continue the circle meetings, sort of, informally.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Justin says immediately, and Andrew and Avi are quick to agree with him. “I mean, you guys know stuff about us that we haven’t told anyone. And somehow it does make it easier when you know you’re not the only ones around who have issues. Other people’s relationships can seem so much more functional than yours, until you know what’s going on under the surface.” 

The others all agree with him. “That’s brilliant,” Avi says, smiling at them. “I love it. 

“Even us two old guys?” Brad asks. “You want us there, too?” 

“Of course,” John says. “Absolutely.” 

There’s another chorus of agreement. Brad looks at Doug, then says, “In that case, we’ll host the first one. Say the second weekend of August, barbeque at ours? Doug makes a killer steak, cooked to order. We’ll provide beer and some other stuff, you guys bring what you want. Sound good?” 

“That’s fantastic,” John says, smiling at him. “Thanks! We’ll make sure we get everyone’s emails before we go tomorrow.” 

Kyle gets up then and makes an announcement, welcoming everyone there, and says that the banquet is ready and to help themselves, so they all get up and join the queue. 

The kitchen staff really have outdone themselves, whole lobsters and carved ice bowls of cocktail prawns, then there’s roasted beef, chicken, and ham, heaping salads, baguettes, Yorkshire puddings, roasted potatoes, mashed potatoes, risottos, and nearly every sort of vegetable under the sun. They feast themselves, washing it all down with excellent wine. Kyle announces that the dancing is to start a little while later, and that dessert will be served starting in half an hour. 

“Dessert!” Andrew moans. “Never!” 

“Lies,” Avi says. “All lies. You know you can, and you will.” 

Andrew elbows him. “Don’t go giving my secrets away,” he scolds, and Avi leans over and kisses him on the cheek. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s dance.” He pulls Andrew to his feet, and Andrew goes willingly. 

“Wait for us!” Justin calls, and drags Thom away from his chardonnay. 

Sherlock looks at Brad and Doug. “Do you two dance?” he asks politely. 

Doug snorts. “Not particularly. Not like this.” He looks at Brad, as though for confirmation, but Sherlock sees the trace of hope there, too. 

Brad looks at Doug. “Well,” he says gruffly. “It’s been a week of exceptions already, hasn’t it. I guess we might as well.” 

Doug’s eyes brighten and they head off to the dance floor. “Good Lord, I’m going to cry at that,” John mutters. 

Sherlock looks at him and smiles, a deeply private smile. He leans over and puts his lips in John’s hair. “Come and dance with me. I’ve wanted to dance with you for so long. Properly.” 

John looks into his eyes and smiles back. “For real this time,” he agrees, meaning all those times they practised for his wedding to Mary, and they go hand-in-hand onto the dance floor. 

They find a place among the other couples, the music slow and romantic and perfect, and fit themselves together like pieces of a puzzle. It feels, Sherlock thinks, John’s cheek leaning against his own, rather incongruously almost like their wedding. It’s one more memory to seal in everything that’s happened since they arrived. It has indeed been a week of firsts, a week he’ll never forget. 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Epilogue**

It’s three weeks later when Sherlock and John find themselves standing on the tarmac of a private government-owned landing pad with Scott on Sherlock’s right. John’s arm is around his waist and his is around John’s shoulders. Sherlock has put his other hand on Scott’s shoulder in what’s meant to be reassurance of their support and presence with him as they wait. 

Scott shifts nervously. “God,” he says. “I can’t believe I’m finally going to see him again. I thought he’d never be found, and then when you told me that he was going to need more psychiatric help than they’d thought at first… I can’t believe he’s really coming back.” 

“He is,” Sherlock confirms, not for the first time. “Don’t be nervous. Your face is the first thing he’ll want to see.” 

“I hope so,” Scott says, sounding both dubious and anxious. 

Mycroft says something into his phone. “Here she comes now,” he says, meaning the chopper, and a few seconds later it appears, a tiny black dot in the sky. The sound grows louder as it approaches and then bumps down onto the ground. 

“Come on,” Sherlock says to Scott, and they walk him over. 

The doors open and two agents descend the steps first, positioning themselves on either side. Jeremy is next, wearing a loose blue t-shirt and a pair of trousers a size too big for him. Mycroft’s agents applaud, and Jeremy looks up, confused and surprised by this reception. Then his eyes fall on Scott. His step falters for a second, but Scott breaks away from them and goes to him, and Jeremy falls into his arms at the base of the stairs and immediately begins to sob, loudly and without restraint. Scott holds him tightly, and he’s crying, too. John’s arm tightens around Sherlock’s waist and they glance at each other for a fleeting second of shared comprehension and understanding. 

“I thought I would never see you again,” Jeremy is sobbing into Scott’s neck. “God. I was so afraid.” 

“I thought I’d never see you again, either, and I was terrified,” Scott tells him, his eyes closed, arms wrapped tightly around Jeremy. Tears are tracking down his face. “Thank God you’re okay, and that they found you. Thank _God_.” He pulls back a little then, looking into Jeremy’s eyes. “ _Are_ you okay?” 

Jeremy bites his lip. “Sort of,” he says shakily. “Scott – you must have thought I’d cheated on you again. Abandoned you there. Did you?” 

Scott hesitates. “I wondered,” he says. “But then I figured out that something must have happened to you.” 

“I never should have gone to the steam room,” Jeremy says, starting to cry again. “I never should have gone without you. This was all my fault. While they were beating me, all I could think of was the times I’d cheated on you – on the only person I’ve ever loved, who I don’t deserve, and that I was getting my punishment at last. I know I don’t deserve the second and third chances you’ve already given me. I don’t deserve you at all, but I love you. I’ll never leave you behind again.” 

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” Scott vows, his eyes wet. “And don’t be ridiculous. None of this was your fault. You don’t deserve what you were put through at all.” He cups Jeremy’s face with one hand, his thumb stroking over his cheek. With the other, he reaches into his pocket. “I brought this back from our room. The rest of our stuff was brought back to our place, but I thought you’d want to have this right away.” He holds out the watch Jeremy’s father gave him and Jeremy immediately breaks down again. 

It’s a far cry from the cocky, grinning winner of the wet t-shirt contest, Sherlock thinks, watching Jeremy weep in Scott’s arms. But no wonder, after what he’s been through. 

They listen to Scott soothe Jeremy, his own eyes full of tears. “I love you,” Scott says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll never stop. Even if you cheat on me again. No matter what. All I wanted was to get you back in one piece. Nothing else matters.” 

“All I wanted was to see you again. I’ll never cheat again,” Jeremy swears. “I promise. That’s all I could think of, was that I wanted a chance to make things right with you. I’ve screwed up so badly. All I wanted was you. I love you and I’m so sorry. I almost destroyed everything by going to the steam room that night. My life. Our life. All of it.” 

“It’s over now,” Scott says, so tenderly that Sherlock wants to turn to John and kiss him then and there, just to confirm everything. 

There’s no need, though. He knows exactly what he needs to know. Mycroft steps forward and speaks to Jeremy and Scott, then ushers them toward one of his ubiquitous black town cars. Scott turns and looks back at them, hesitating, and Sherlock waves him into the car and mimics texting. Scott nods. There will be time for them to catch up later. Right now they need to be together, on their own. 

Mycroft watches the town car drive away, then comes over to them. “Thank you,” he says, rather officiously. “Interpol is confident that they’ll be able to recover the other trafficking victims within the next week or so. Given Davidson’s condition after only a few days, it’s impossible to say at this point how much psychological damage these men will have sustained, but everything possible will be done for them.” 

John shakes his head. “But their partners have been murdered, for the most part. What kind of a life will that be to come back to?” 

Sherlock looks at him and thinks how he would feel if it had been John who’d been abducted or murdered, and wants to put his arms around him, keep him from all harm. “A better life than their current one,” he says. “That’s the principal idea.” 

John’s eyes meet his. “True,” he says. “And where there’s life, there’s hope. But Jesus, Sherlock – that’s one court case I want to attend! I want to see these bastards go down for this! Not just Lucas and Paul – all of them!” 

Sherlock nods. “We will,” he promises. “I want to be there, too.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I have another car on stand-by,” he says. “Would you like a lift home?” 

“Please,” Sherlock says, without argument. He surreptitiously checks the time. They’re still fine. Good. 

John agrees, and they get into the appointed car and go home. They chat a little more about Jeremy and Scott, then John relaxes against the luxurious cushioning of the seat and asks, “What do you want to do tonight?” 

Sherlock checks the time again. “Well, if you’re amenable, I did make us a dinner reservation...” 

John looks at him, a bit astonished. “Did you! When?” 

“A few days ago,” Sherlock replies, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Aren’t I allowed to surprise you now and then?” 

John smiles. “Of course,” he says. “Where are we going?” 

Sherlock pauses very slightly for dramatic effect. “Chez Pierre,” he says, and John’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. 

“Chez Pierre,” he repeats, incredulous. “I thought they had a six-month wait list to eat there!” 

“So they do,” Sherlock informs him, feeling rather pleased with himself. “This is Mycroft’s way of thanking us.” 

John frowns. “He didn’t say…” 

“I asked him,” Sherlock tells him. “I had him lean on the maître d’. He owed Mycroft a favour.” 

“Wow,” John says, looking impressed. “I guess we’ll have to dress for it, then.” 

Sherlock agrees, and the car pulls up at the kerb in front of Baker Street. A pleasant anticipation follows them up the stairs and stays with them as they discuss timing and when to leave, then what to wear. They both put on suits, getting ready in an intimate dance of shared space. The bedroom feels as though it’s always been half John’s, as though the time before barely even counts now. There was very little adjusting to do, in the end. They shave together and brush their teeth together and shower together more often than not. They sleep together and it’s wonderful. Only twice, John has gone to bed ahead of him, leaving Sherlock the pleasant anticipation of going into the bedroom and seeing John there, finding him under the blankets, the warmth of him pervading the linens, John turning sleepily toward him no matter how carefully Sherlock gets into bed. Learning how to sleep together has been one of the best parts, to Sherlock’s own surprise. Day-to-day life as John’s partner and lover is exponentially better than he ever could have imagined, and having regular, phenomenal, deeply-satisfying sex with him is better still, but there’s something incredibly special about sleeping with John. They’ve explored positions and arrangements, whose arm should go where, how tightly or loosely to hold, whose hair or breath tickles whose face, and they’ve found countless ways to make it work, how to hold one another as they sleep. It feels like the chrysalis they return to at the end of every day, their love renewed in each other’s arms as they recharge for another day, and this almost more than anything else has Sherlock convinced beyond doubt now that no matter what else happens, as long as they can sleep together, they will still be together in eight months or five years or twenty. He isn’t afraid of this disappearing on him anymore, like a hallucination or mirage or dream. 

Everything John promised is coming true: nothing changed when they came home. They spend more time together than ever, and it’s wonderful. They’ve christened every room of the flat, but John rather insisted that the first time be in what’s now their bed, no longer Sherlock’s alone. He also insisted that Sherlock top that first night back from Ravine Valley, and so, the very first time Sherlock ever had sex in his own bed was with him inside John, trembling, face to face as their bodies came together in this new way. John guided a little at the beginning, then stopped and let Sherlock take the lead, surrendering it to him without question, and Sherlock had realised in that moment that instinct and observation were more than enough to show him the rest of the way. He’d listened to the cues of John’s body and voice, leading them into a rising crescendo of need and pleasure combined, panting and moving as one joint being, Sherlock’s entire body thrusting and rocking into John’s, John’s fingers tightening around his triceps, then his back, then his arse, touching him as much as possible. He’d known when he’d found the sweet spot for John, as John’s breath had caught and he’d grown frantic, so Sherlock had let himself go harder and faster still, holding out just until John’s body ratcheted itself tighter and tighter, his voice rising with it, and then he’d come with Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his erection, spraying them both with hot release, and Sherlock’s control faltered then. He’d let go all of the way and thrust into John until the pleasure gripped him on all sides and turned him inside out in a hot flood that pulsed out of him in waves. It had lasted for several long moments, the sweetness of it pounding through his nervous system, and then John was pulling him down, holding him as they panted together, all of Sherlock’s limbs giving way and trembling through the aftershocks. Later, John had untangled them and gone to get the leftover champagne that he’d brought back from Ravine Valley. “No reason we can’t drink champagne in bed at home,” he’d said, pouring them tall, fizzing glasses, and Sherlock had laughed. It served as a good bridge, a point of continuity. 

They’ve tried almost everything there is to try, never turning down a new idea or position or place, and instead of becoming dull with familiarity, Sherlock is amazed to see that the sense of intimacy just grows continually. John’s body feels as familiar as his own, and he loves cataloguing the sounds he makes, the specific expressions that come across his face, the particular muscle groups activated. The things he says during sex, or after, and then there’s all of the space in between. The small things – the little touches and looks and words, all of which serve to bind them more and more tightly together. It’s like being on a permanent high, and Sherlock is insanely happy, as he described it to John over breakfast the other day. “Every time I think I can’t feel any happier, another day occurs and I think that I’m even happier than I was the day before,” he told John, their hands linked across the table as they ate. 

“I know,” John had said, his eyes doing that thing that makes Sherlock’s chest ache. “I feel exactly the same way, Sherlock. And I frankly don’t care how much of a sop that makes me sound. I’ve never been in love this way before. I’ve loved you for so long and tried to deny it, tried to make myself believe it would never be possible, and here it is, not only possible, but – absolutely phenomenal. It’s like living in a dream.” 

Now, Sherlock concentrates on tying his black silk tie in the mirror, fidgeting with the knot. “I hate ties,” he says mildly, without heat. 

“I know you do.” John puts the finishing touch on his own tie, then beckons to Sherlock. “Here. Let me.” 

Sherlock turns obediently toward him and John deftly re-ties his tie in a perfect half-Windsor, then lifts his chin and kisses Sherlock on the lips, lingeringly. “Thank you,” Sherlock says after, his voice a murmur, eyes opening. 

John smiles. “For the knot or the kiss?” 

“Both.” Sherlock ducks in and kisses him again and John not only permits it, but kisses back with enthusiasm, several times. Finally, Sherlock pulls back. “I suppose we shouldn’t get too carried away,” he says, though it’s difficult. “I don’t want us to miss our reservation.” 

“Right, yeah,” John says. He checks the time. “Are we just about ready? You look incredible, by the way.” 

Sherlock smiles. “So do you,” he says, and it’s true. He’s never seen John in full black-tie before, and it suits him immensely. 

“Just give me a second and I’ll be right there,” John says, so Sherlock goes to find his coat and shoes. It’s the first week of August, but the evenings have been cool. John joins him a moment later and they go down and hail a taxi. 

Chez Pierre isn’t enormous, but it’s large enough to have a conversation in without being overheard, which is perfect. The wait staff are professional and the wine list is impressive. They order, brandied beef medallions for Sherlock and stuffed quail in saffron bisque for John, and take the wine suggestion adroitly made by their server. This is uncorked and poured, and they drink it with a freshly-baked baguette brought out hot from the oven. 

It’s a beautiful meal, and Sherlock watches John, waiting for the opportune moment. They’ve just finished dessert, a shared cheese board with thin wafers of dessert chocolate, when John leans forward and takes both of Sherlock’s hands. “I’m so glad you made us this reservation tonight,” he says, smiling his gentlest, most beautiful smile. “I was going to suggest we go out, assuming Jeremy’s safe return. And this restaurant is perfect. Brilliant choice!” 

Sherlock smiles back. “I’m glad you liked it,” he says. He senses that John hasn’t finished yet, and he’s correct. 

John is still smiling into his eyes, the midnight blue of his own coming out in the light of the candle flickering at the side of the table. “I’ve only ever done this once before,” he says. “And last time, it was difficult. Now I know exactly why: it was because I knew it wasn’t the right choice. This time, it’s the easiest thing in the world. I love you, Sherlock. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. We’ve already said that, I know. We’ve even promised it. I just want to go one step further and make it completely official. Will you marry me?” 

Sherlock swallows past the hardness that’s suddenly come into his throat and looks at their hands, willing himself not to cry. “Yes,” he says, his voice coming out low, but very certain. He looks up into John’s eyes. “Yes,” he repeats. “Absolutely.” 

John’s entire face smiles and his hands tighten around Sherlock’s before he lets go with one to reach into his jacket pocket. “This is for you,” he says, and slides a small, navy box into Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock takes it and opens it curiously. He can’t help it. He begins to smile, then actually chuckles out loud. He doesn’t mean to; John’s last proposal was interrupted and he was determined not to make the same mistake as Mary did, but he can’t help laughing a little at this. 

“What?” John frowns a little, not quite offended, but verging on it. “What’s so funny?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s a beautiful ring. Thank you.” He takes it out of the bed of velvet it’s reposing on and slips it onto his fourth finger. It fits perfectly, of course. 

John isn’t convinced. “What is it?” he repeats, so Sherlock smiles his very nicest smile, moves the box aside, and takes John’s hands in turn. 

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” he explains. “Not this time. But as it happens…” He reaches into his own jacket pocket and brings out an identical box and puts it into John’s hands. 

John’s eyes widen. “Oh my God,” he says. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” Sherlock confesses. 

John doesn’t laugh. “When did you buy this?” he asks, looking at Sherlock rather than at the ring. 

It’s Friday today. “Tuesday,” Sherlock tells him. 

John shakes his head. “I bought yours on Wednesday. That little shop on Marylebone, yeah?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He nods at the box. “Open it.” 

John does, and now he begins to laugh, too. “Oh my God. No wonder,” he says, and takes out an identical ring. “I’m sorry! You were planning this dinner specifically to propose, and I beat you to it!” 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assures him, and it is. He leans forward, lips compressing a little. “Can I still ask, though? Would that be odd?” 

“Of course not,” John says, closing the ring box again. He puts his hands into Sherlock’s and smiles dreamily at him. “Please.”

Sherlock leans over the table as far as he can. “John Watson, you are the love of my life and the reason I live. Will you marry me?” 

John’s eyes glass over. “Of course,” he says softly, touching his left eye. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” He opens the ring box now and fits the ring onto his own finger. 

Sherlock admires the one on his hand. “Did you choose it yourself, or did they guide you toward this one?” he asks, curious. It’s made of hammered platinum, edged in smooth lines. 

John shakes his head. “I picked it myself,” he says. “It took me all of five minutes to choose it.” 

“It took me more like thirty,” Sherlock admits. “It had to be perfect.” 

John smiles. “I saw this one and just knew that it was,” he says. “I can’t wait to tell everyone!” 

Sherlock smiles, too. “That will be fun,” he agrees. “When should we have the wedding? Do you want to do something big or something small?” 

“Oh, definitely big,” John says. “I’ll actually have fun planning this one!” 

“We have to invite Todd and Margaret,” Sherlock says firmly. “They’re largely responsible for us getting our heads out of our arses at last.” 

“Absolutely,” John agrees. He grins. “When we were up there last week, did you notice Kyle’s constant presence around Todd?” 

“I did,” Sherlock confirms. “Do you think they’ll become a thing? It would be nice for Todd, I think.” 

“Agreed. For Kyle, too. They’d do a good job of running that place together,” John says. 

Their server comes with the bill then. Sherlock looks across at John and tries to make himself believe that John is now his fiancé. “May I?” he asks, meaning the bill. “Mycroft offered, but I’d rather. If it’s all right with you.” 

John nods, smiling. “Go ahead, and thank you,” he says. 

Sherlock puts his credit card on the tray, not even looking at the bill until it’s time to punch his numbers into the machine that the server brings over. He tips so well that the maître d’ and server follow them to the door, entreating them to have a good night. 

Outside on the pavement, the stars are out. It’s nearly eleven and there aren’t many people bustling around. John steps very close to Sherlock and puts his arms around his neck and shoulders, so Sherlock lets himself be drawn in close and puts his own arms around John’s middle. “You’re mine for life,” John says, searching Sherlock’s eyes as though he can hardly believe it. “That’s the only thing I could have asked for, Sherlock. The only thing I’ve really wanted since the day we first met.”

Sherlock nods. He puts his forehead against John’s. “You’re all I’ve wanted, too. Are you really going to marry me?” 

“Try and stop me,” John dares, but he’s still smiling. 

“Absolutely not.” Sherlock kisses him, then kisses him again, their arms holding each other tightly, and the rest of the world around them could be dissolving. It wouldn’t even matter. 

They’re home at last. 

*


End file.
